


The White Gems of Lasgalen

by oliverdalstonbrowning



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Character Death, Developing Friendships, Everyone Is Gay, Kings & Queens, Light Angst, M/M, Mermaids, Minor Graphic Violence, Non-Explicit Sex, Orphaned Work - Freeform, Pirate! Thranduil, Pirates, Plot, Politics, Romance, Sailor! Bard, Swordfighting, White Gems of Lasgalen, Witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-23 15:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 135,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4881511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/pseuds/oliverdalstonbrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As enemies ally and war brews from all sides, Bard chases a pirate far across the sea to find white treasure and tear down an empire. But how far will Captain Thranduil go to reclaim his gems, and what price will Bard have to pay to follow his heart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thrush and Eryn Lasgalen

**Author's Note:**

> Some things to note: the universe is actually much the same, just without different races. I thought about keeping it elves/dwarves/men/etc, but decided it would be too complicated. As far as places are concerned, everything is the same as it is in a typical map of Middle Earth, just cut into islands/countries and spread out over (a lot) of water. Also I know nothing about pirates and I'm sorry.

A violent wind battered the sails, salty, brisk, and cold. It whipped at the ropes of a small Navy ship and nipped at the fingers of its crew. Across an expanse of murky, grey sea the _Thrush_ ploughed through the water, headed for home.

    “Three months,” grumbled Percy, a strapping sailor with flyaway blonde hair. He scratched at his beard, which was evidence of these three months at sea. “Three months on this Godforsaken boat. I wonder if I’ll walk straight when we land. And to think we already would be home if we hadn’t stopped in the Shire.”

    Across from him sat a young man, still fresh in his adulthood. He carried himself proudly and wore his dark hair in a loose knot at his neck. He stretched back against a barrel, inhaling the sea breeze. Beneath him, he could feel the ship swaying, rocking comfortably back and forth with the waves.

    “I hope our port will not be for long,” he said easily. “Three months at sea has hardly quenched my thirst for open water.”

    “You should join the fish, Bard. You’d fit in with them quite nicely,” Percy joked.

    Bard grinned. True, he enjoyed being out at sea. Confined to a ship though he may be, it gave him a thrilling sense of freedom. An entire world was there to be explored; all he needed to do was chase that horizon.

    However, he did admit he was looking forward to some decent drink and a bed with an actual mattress. Life on a ship was good, but it lacked some finery that even Bard – who lived on a very poor sailor’s wage – had grown accustomed to. He was very tired of hard tack and rum.

    The longing for a warm bed and clean clothes were just beginning to find their way into his thoughts when a sharp voice suddenly broke out among the crew.

    “Ship ahoy!”

    Bard and the other sailors ran to the railing, peering off the edge of the vessel. White waves lapped at the keel and far across the dreary water a ship had appeared, as though out of nowhere. It was a deep, reddish brown, the paint weather-worn and chipped. The wind beat against a black flag bearing the image of an animal skull with fearsome, twisting antlers.

    Pirates.

    “Do they mean to engage?” Bard murmured to Percy, who looked afraid.

    “They wouldn’t dare attack the King’s Navy.”

    Bard was not so sure. He turned to the Commodore who was on the quarterdeck, peering through a telescope towards the pirates. Bard couldn’t make out his expression.

    Silence had fallen over the crew. They were wary, having not expected to encounter pirates on their journey, especially so close to home. Pirates were not permitted near the mainland. Not that something petty like the law had ever stopped them, but there was never really any need for them to seek out plunder or fights in any of the larger cities. They took usually to the coastal harbours and towns, seeking out pirate-friendly ports. Finding them so close to Laketown was certainly cause for suspicion.

    “Lower the foresail and strike the colours!”

    Bard and Percy quickly joined two other sailors in grabbing ropes. They furled Royal flag and the foresails, leaving only the main ones to catch the wind. The Commodore meant to avoid antagonizing the pirates.

    “Commodore Minyatur, what if they attack us?” one crewmember cried, saying what everyone else was thinking.

    “If we give them no reason to attack, they won’t,” the Commodore said firmly, though there was shiver of doubt in his voice.

    The entire crew had been brought to a heart-hammering standstill. All of them stared out across the sea, watching as the pirate ship glided ever nearer. Bard saw it veer slightly out of their way to sidle up on the starboard side.

    It felt like hours that they waited, but it was barely minutes. The wind was in the pirates’ favour and they were soon upon the _Thrush._ Bard reached for his sword, as did many others, ready to fight as soon as the order was given. They outnumbered the pirates easily.

    But the only order that was given was for the anchor to be dropped. The sailors cast nervous glances to the Commodore, but his attention was fixated on the approaching pirates.

    “Everyone port side,” he said.

    Confused and muttering to one another, the sailors retreated to one side of the ship as the pirates finally arrived along the starboard side. Their vessel was only a few metres away and nearly twice the size of the _Thrush_. Two pirates lifted a plank, sliding it across the railing and down to Navy crew.

    “Surely he won’t let them board us. What for? We have no treasure,” Bard whispered to Percy, who looked bewildered.

    “We cannot best them in a fight. Stay your weapons,” the Commodore said.

    “Wise decision,” came a voice from across the water. One of the pirates had spoken, and it caused the rest of them to break out into laughter.

    “Thranduil! You can’t do this!” the Commodore shouted back bravely.

    The pirates laughed again. Two of them crossed the plank. To Bard’s surprise, they were all exceptionally well-dressed. He thankfully hadn’t much experience with pirates, but those he had seen or heard about wore very dirty, unkempt clothes. Bard would not have thought these men to be pirates at all if it wasn’t for their flag, which looked all the more menacing now that it was right above him.

    A third pirate moved over to the _Thrush._ Though inexperienced, Bard knew enough to understand that this was the captain. He was tall, tanned and richly dressed in a blue tunic and high black boots. He wore a black cavalier hat over his silvery-blonde hair, which reached the middle of his back like cascading silk. It was difficult to tell his age, but he was older than Bard’s twenty years. He surveyed the crew with a sweeping, icy glare, and then proceeded to the quarterdeck where the Commodore was still standing.

    The pirate drew his sword. It was unnaturally long and looked as though it had been made for a king. Bard felt sorry for whichever poor lord had suffered for him to obtain such a beautiful instrument.

    “Where is it?” he said, pointing the sword at the Commodore

    “You can’t do this, Thranduil,” Minyatur said again. “That chest belongs to the King.”

    Chest? Bard was not alone in wondering what chest the Commodore was talking about.

    “That chest belongs to me,” Thranduil snarled. He raised his sword threateningly for a second, but then in one swift motion he sheathed it and addressed his crew. “Check the cabin! Check the hold! Check the brig, too! Take what you will, though I doubt these poor rats have any gold to spare.”

    The rest of the pirates – Bard counted seven of them in total, including Thranduil. A pitiful number to apparently overpower twenty of the Royal Navy – crossed the plank and boarded the _Thrush_. Its crew stared in horror as they fled down the steps to the hold. The first two kicked down the door of the captain’s cabin. This was wrong, Bard thought. The pirates couldn’t just do as they pleased. What was the Commodore playing at?

    The crew of the _Thrush_ lingered tensely on the port side while the pirates roamed the ship at their leisure. Thranduil observed from the quarterdeck, jeering at the Commodore from time to time as if they were long-standing rivals, which Bard had reason to believe was true.

    There was indeed no treasure for the pirates to take, but they pilfered what was left of the food and rum.

    “Captain!” one of the pirates shouted from below deck. He stuck out his head, grinning broadly. “They have wine.”

    Thranduil smirked. “Wine for the King? Surely he has enough. Take it all!”

    The pirate disappeared to the hold again and soon returned with four of his shipmates, all of them carrying a barrel of wine each. They wobbled across the plank and then returned to get the rest of it.

    It was a few more minutes before the pirates who had entered the cabin emerged. They had a large iron chest between them and it was heaved over to their ship.

    Looking satisfied, Thranduil took the steps back down to the deck.

    “Return to the ship,” he called, and a few pirates hurried out of the hold, carrying baskets of food and one last barrel of wine.

    Thranduil followed them across the plank.

    “No!” 

    Bard's shout left him before he could think twice. Percy tried to hold him back, but he drew his sword and sprinted to the plank.

    “Stand down, sailor!” the Commodore cried.

    “You can’t take it!” Bard said, standing at the end of the plank and pointing his sword at Thranduil.

    The pirate turned on his boot heel to look at Bard, eyeing him curiously, but saying nothing.

    “Taking property of the King gives me permission to kill you on site,” Bard said firmly, though his stomach twisted with nerves and hatred.

    The pirates all howled with laughter.

    “My, my, it seems we have ourselves a patriot,” Thranduil crooned, his voice deep and cold. “What makes you think this chest is property of the King?”

    Bard hesitated. “If- if it’s aboard this ship, then it’s under our protection, and the King’s Navy is sworn to protect –”

    “What’s your name?”

    Bard faltered at being interrupted, but reluctantly gave his name.

    "Bard."

    “Tell me, Bard, do you know what’s in this chest?”

    Bard might have shaken his head, but he didn’t reply at all because he didn't want to admit he didn't know. His silence answered Thranduil all the same.

    “No, I thought not. This chest contains very valuable letters, maps and documentation that the King does not want in the wrong hands.” At this, Thranduil spread his long fingers open wide, smiling at Bard. “As it so happens, _these_ wrong hands will find them very useful, especially considering they’re mine.”

    “Something isn’t yours just because you stole it!” Bard growled.

    Thranduil look rather taken aback by this, but Bard could tell he was putting it on, giving his crew a show. He raised an eyebrow mockingly. “Would you say such a thing to your King? If I remember correctly, it was he who stole it from me in the first place.”

    His crew tittered.

    “Shoot him!” one of them barked.

    “Let the little rat drown!”

    “Pirates don’t have the right to property,” Bard said, ignoring them and tightening the grip on his sword.

    Thranduil hissed through his teeth. “How rude you are, Bard. I can assure you I have every right to take this chest. Do you even know who I am?”

    Merriment spread across the pirates once more.

    Bard admitted that – aside now from a name – he had no idea who sailed beneath such a strange flag.

    “I don’t make a habit of acquainting myself with thieves and traitors,” he spat.

    Thranduil smirked. “Perhaps time in our brig will help you reconsider.”

    He snapped his fingers. Before Bard could react, two pirates grabbed his arms. His sword and musket were roughly taken away and the plank was slid back onto the ship.

    “Weigh anchor. Let’s get away from this pathetic spit of land. And take our little rat to the brig.”

    The crew burst into action around Bard and he was dragged away below deck. The last thing he saw was the King’s Navy staring at him, all of them aghast at his irrationality. 

 

The brig was tidy and bore little evidence of being regularly used. Bard had half expected it to be awash with water from a leak, but it was relatively dry except for the sea seeping in occasionally through slits in the timber. He was tossed into the furthest cell, near the prow, where he resigned himself to a corner and hung his head between his legs, feeling very sorry for himself. Trust him to be the only one captured by pirates because he had been foolish enough to oppose them.

    Bard’s mind reeled with questions. The only thing he clearly understood was why the Commodore had made port in the Shire; to retrieve the chest. Bard wondered what kind of documents were inside, and why Thranduil seemed to think they belonged to him, not the king.

    Nothing else made sense, however. Why had they surrendered to the pirates? How had the Commodore known what they were after? Why had he let them take it?

    Tired and fuming, Bard gave himself up to sleep. There was no bed, only a thin blanket which he bundled up to rest his head on. He fell asleep to the gentle rocking of the ship, and was woken some hours later by footsteps coming towards his cell.

    His back and ribs aching from the hard floor, Bard sat up and peered through the cell as a pirate approached. He was dark, heavily built and mean-looking with tattoos on his arms, neck, and even his face. Regardless of this, he was as immaculately dressed as his shipmates, and his long brown hair was clean. A sharp cutlass and various knives hung from his hip with two pistols. He glared down at Bard with a mixture of amusement and disgust.

    “You’re dining with the Captain,” he said gruffly.

    “What?” said Bard, getting to his feet.

    The pirate did not reply, but unlocked the cell. He grabbed Bard by the front of his uniform and thrust him forward down the line of cells. He cast a nervous glance back to the pirate, wondering if this was some kind of trick, but climbed the steps up to the deck.

    It was night time now. Lanterns swung from the masts and stars glittered overhead. All around them was black sea. For the first time ever on a ship, Bard felt very small and very trapped.

    The tattooed pirate pushed him in the direction of the Captain’s cabin below the quarterdeck and knocked.

    “Enter.”

    He opened the door and gestured for Bard to go in. Bard hesitated, but felt the warmth of the cabin tempt him and obeyed, looking around. It was spacious and the way it was painted made Bard wonder if the ship hadn’t once been part of the King’s fleet. Another door led off to a second room and a fire crackled in the grate. A table sat in the centre, laden with food.

    There stood Captain Thranduil. He was wearing a white shirt now and a finely spun golden tunic. The iron chest was at his feet, slightly ajar. He poured over a map of Middle-Earth, marking certain places with a quill as he studied a paper in his hand.

    “Sit,” he said.

    Bard went over to the table and sat, gazing hungrily at the food there. He knew it was courtesy to wait, but he was suddenly aware of how famished he was. And there was no hard tack and rum in front of him; there was fresh bread and fruit and pork and wine.

    Thranduil made one last cross on his map and then sat down opposite Bard. He poured wine for the both of them.

    “No doubt you are wondering why I have summoned you,” he said.

    Bard was so hungry that it actually hadn’t crossed his mind beyond thinking this was a trick, but now that it was brought up, he found it strange to be dining with the Captain even though he was a prisoner.

    Thranduil continued when Bard did not speak. “I have a proposition for you,” he said.

    “I’m not going to barter with a pirate,” Bard said immediately.

    Thranduil chuckled, handing Bard a goblet. “You haven’t even heard my offer yet.”

    “I don’t want to hear it.”

    “Oh, I think you do. You see, I’m in the market for some treasure – not just any treasure, of course – but I unfortunately lack a significant portion of a crew to help me in this endeavour.”

    At this, Thranduil began to pile food onto his plate. When Bard – suddenly feeling very timid – did not do the same, he said. “I imagine you are very hungry.”

    Scowling, Bard got some food for himself.

    “Now. My proposition is this; go on account and help me find this treasure, or be keel-hauled and drowned.”

    Bard stopped in the process of tearing off a hunk of bread.

    “Why would you give me this choice?” he stammered.

    “I admire your spirit, so I thought to offer you a position rather than kill you. It would be a shame to see such courage at the bottom of the sea,” Thranduil said.

    “How considerate,” Bard grumbled, finally biting into the food to alleviate his irritation.

    Thranduil chose to ignore this. “You will, of course, receive a share of any other treasure we find, as well as benefits… voting rights and so forth.”

    Bard blinked at him. Was Thranduil trying to be funny?

    “I don’t understand,” he said.

    Thranduil smiled loosely, taking a sip of wine. “I think you will be surprised to find the pirate’s life marginally better than you anticipated. I can’t guarantee you won’t lose an arm or a leg, but if you refuse my offer, you definitely _will_ lose your life.”

    “You didn’t kill any of the other sailors,” Bard opined, though he knew there was no use in pointing it out.

    “We don’t kill because we like it, Bard. I will only have you drowned because you have seen enough to know where we are going and why, and this is quite valuable information for the king should I send you running back to him. And I must keep up appearances, you understand."

    Bard leaned back in his chair, feeling a little nauseous and not at all hungry anymore. To be killed or sign himself up as a pirate; he honestly couldn’t conclude which was worse. He knew, however, that Thranduil had played this game very well; by bringing Bard to the centre of his plan, he had ultimately given him no other choice except to join. Still, Bard was reluctant. Being keelhauled sounded unpleasant, but it somehow wasn’t enough to convince him to be a pirate.

    Thranduil sensed his indecision. “We will be arriving in Imladris a week from now. You have until then to make your choice.”

    “What will you do with me in the meantime?” Bard asked, a lump in his throat.

    “I won’t keep you in the brig, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’ll not have a good pair of hands go to waste. It’s not like you can go anywhere,” Thranduil said.

    At this, he stood up and went to the door, wrenching it open.

    “Feren!”

    Almost at once, the angry, tattooed pirate who had brought Bard from his cell appeared at the door. He hastily hid a bottle of something behind his back as Thranduil addressed him.

    “Find Bard a place to sleep. Brief him, too. There is no sense in doing it later,” he said.

   Feren nodded. Thranduil turned around and looked at Bard very deliberately. When he did not stand – feeling much too jelly-legged and frightened to do so – Thranduil strode over, grabbed the front of his uniform much like Feren had done, and sent him stumbling out of the cabin. Before Bard could protest to such treatment, the door the slammed shut.

    “Come on, little rat,” Feren sighed. He set his drink on the deck for later.

    As there was no other option available to him, Bard followed. On the main deck, he spotted the other pirates sitting on barrels and crates, drinking and eating around a wood fire. They all fell silent to stare at him, mischievous glints in their eyes.

    Feren took Bard below deck again to where the pirates slept. It was spacious and well-lit as there weren’t many hammocks. They swung ominously in the eerie silence, the ropes creaking. 

    In a monotonous voice, Feren recited. “You can sleep here. Blankets are over there. Don’t make too much noise. Don’t make friends with the rats – I imagine it will be especially tempting for you. While aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_ you must adhere to Captain Thranduil’s Code of Conduct. This means; no fighting, no spitting, no stealing extra rations, no taking more loot than you’re entitled to, no drinking before sundown, no sleeping after sun up. Should you fall, be tossed, or throw yourself overboard, as a non-pirate your life is not worth saving and you will be left to drown. As a non-pirate and newest addition to this ship, you will not speak unless spoken to, and when spoken to you are to show the utmost respect to your superior. If you do not abide by the Code of Conduct, you will be disciplined in accordance to your crime. Under no circumstances are you to disturb the Captain unless he has specifically requested your presence. Are there any questions? No? Good. Sleep well.”

    And with a turn of his heel, Feren went back up the stairs.

    Bard sunk onto a hammock, feeling the rough cotton beneath his fingers. What a dismal turn of events, he thought. His luck couldn’t possibly get worse.

    Still, it was either this or the brig. Bard got himself a blanket, peeled off the outer layer of his uniform, and took off his boots. Though very tired, he could not find it in himself to sleep. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ was different; it rocked different and smelled different and it gave Bard no sense of freedom at all. When the crew came down from their drinking at last, he turned over in the hammock and pretended not to hear them talking about him.

    “What’s the Captain playing at, bringing him on board? Don’t we have enough rats?”

    “Oh, leave him alone, Lethuin.” Bard was shocked to hear that this voice was female. A female pirate? Surely such a thing wasn’t permitted. “Whether he’s on account or not, he probably doesn’t want to be here.”

    “Don’t tell me you sympathise, Nimrodel?” said the other pirate, Lethuin.

    “As it so happens, I do. And so should you! All of you started out in a very similar position. You know I found your old uniform the other day, _Lord_ Glorfindel.”

    There was a shrill cry as something was evidently thrown at Nimrodel, but she laughed it off. “Just don’t be so horrible to him. He’s a kid,” she added.

    “He’s a little rat. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m tired of breaking in Navy sailors. Meludir cried for a month straight; this one will be no different,” said another pirate.

    “You don’t know that, Glorfindel. The Captain obviously thinks he will be of some use,” Nimrodel said.

    “Whatever. I’ll just be glad to get to Imladris and recruit some _real_ pirates.”


	2. Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *clenches fists* i love a good back story. also I love it when I plan entire plots in the shower.  
> Thank you so much for leaving comments and kudos on the first chapter - I was so happy to see people were liking it :)

Bard awoke at sunrise to the sound of feet thumping against the deck and the groans and yawns of people as they swung out of their bunks. For a moment, he thought he was back on the _Thrush_ with Percy swinging in a hammock beside him. But, when he opened his eyes, Bard was staring at an unfamiliar ceiling wrapped in an unfamiliar blanket on a Godforsaken pirate ship. His heart plummeted. 

    Around him, the crewmembers were shuffling along the floor, retrieving clothes and buckling on weapons. It didn’t take much for Bard to do the same. Now was not the time to sulk at his misfortune. All that would likely come of staying in bed was a flogging.

    However, when he looked down at his clothes, he realised they weren’t where he left them. His boots and jacket were missing.

    Bard turned to the pirates uneasily, swallowing the fear that sat like a lump in his throat.

    “Excuse me?” he said quietly. “Do you know what happened to my clothes?”

    A couple of them glanced at him; a tall, stern one, and the female one, who was short and had shoulder-length curly red hair. She turned to the other pirate, glaring at him.

    “Did you take his stuff?” she demanded fiercely. “Lethuin!”

    The pirate – Lethuin – smirked and shrugged. He buckled his cutlass around his hips and joined the others climbing the stairs to the deck.

    The girl glanced at Bard, sizing him up for a moment. “Sorry, kid,” she said, and she followed Lethuin.

    Barefoot and shivering in the crisp dawn, Bard went up the stairs as well. He was very hungry, wishing he had taken proper advantage of Captain Thranduil’s food the night before. Still, he didn’t dare complain. He would not let these pirates get to him.

    He was thankfully given breakfast. Bread and a much bruised apple were thrown Bard’s way as he exited the gun deck. He caught the food awkwardly and wolfed it down with a cup of boiled water. After that, it was time to work.

    Bard didn’t know what pirates did aboard their ships. He figured it was much the same as what was done on the _Thrush_ , and for the most part he was right. But the crew of the _Eryn Lasgalen_  were rather enjoying having Bard as a personal slave. While they relaxed on deck, played games, and sparred with one another, Bard was sent scurrying up and down the ship doing all of their jobs.

    The frosty dawn soon fell into a hot and sweaty morning. There was no wind or clouds and the sun beat down on Bard’s neck as he furled and unfurled the sails, checked the rigging, sifted gunpowder, sharpened weapons and treated the railing. He thought perhaps Nimrodel would come to his rescue once again, but she lingered on the quarterdeck, manning the wheel and acting as though she couldn’t see what was going on below.

    It was past midday when Bard was finally allowed some reprieve. Captain Thranduil emerged from his cabin and, upon seeing what his crew were (not) doing, he flew into a temper. They cowered at his bellows, which even Bard confessed were quite terrifying. Thranduil was intimidating enough without raising his voice.

    “Mark my words; if I catch any of you slacking your duties again, I’ll flog you to within an inch of your lives,” he barked, kicking them all to their feet. He kicked one pirate particularly hard. “Quartermaster Glorfindel.”

    This pirate scrambled to his feet, standing stiff to attention. He was shorter in stature than the other men and had wavy hair so long and thick that it looked as though it had been spun from pure gold. His boots had impressive buckles on them and he was missing his right hand. He clasped his left one around the stump and held his arms behind his back, keeping his gaze at Thranduil’s shoulder as a mark of respect.

    “When I am not present I expect you to keep this ship in order – I do believe that is your _job_. I did not make you Quartermaster so that you might abuse that privilege,” Thranduil said, towering over Glorfindel. “Do not think I won’t cut off your other hand if I see you letting this sort of thing happen again, whether by ignorance or endorsement. Take over for Nimrodel. And tell her to see me.”

    Glorfindel nodded and headed for the wheel. He seemed to be biting back a smirk, but was still taking Thranduil’s warning quite seriously. Bard wondered what he had done to lose one hand in the first place.

    Thranduil turned to Bard, who was on his hands and knees, scrubbing the deck.

    “Where are your shoes?” he asked flatly.

    Bard wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer this honestly, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say except, “Someone took them.”

    Thranduil’s eyes rolled so far into the back of his head Bard saw nothing but the whites of them. Then, he spun on his heel and marched over to Lethuin, who seemed to have sensed he was in trouble and was trying to sneak below deck.

    With exceptional strength, Thranduil seized him by the back of the shirt and hauled him out of the hold.

    “Nice shoes, Lethuin,” he seethed.

    Bard only noticed then that Lethuin was wearing his boots. Lethuin winced slightly under the stern gaze of his Captain and then took them off, tossing them carelessly back to Bard.

    “ _You_ can scrub the deck,” Thranduil said. “Bard, go catch some rats.”

    Bard stuffed his feet back into his boots and abandoned the bucket and brush. He caught two of the pirates (Feren, and a young one with a shaved head and eye-patch) stifling laughs at the thought of their little rat being ordered to catch rats, but he didn’t care. Bard vanished below deck, glad to be free of them.

    He heard yelling above him as he descended to the hold and Nimrodel soon came stomping down after him. She shot Bard a fleeting look and said, “It was fun while it lasted,” before pushing past him down another flight of stairs.

    Bard took his time catching rats, supposing he would be called upon when and if he was needed. As he had no weapon to kill them with, he pushed them out of windows to drown, be eaten by sharks, or perhaps swim to shore if they were luckier than he was. It was quite a depressing thought to realise he envied the life of a rodent, but at least it was cool below deck, and no one was jeering at him.

    He managed to catch about a dozen rats before Nimrodel eventually found him. She was soaking wet from her waist down, having no doubt been assigned to the bilge pump, which was easily the worst job on any vessel. “Hungry?” she said.

    Bard nodded and he went with her to the main deck. The sun was lower now, inching its way towards the horizon and relieving the ship of its relentless heat. By the forecastle, the rest of the crew sat around a table where more bread, some vegetables, and water had been laid out. Nimrodel elbowed her way in, swatting the boys away while she retrieved food for Bard and herself. She handed him a chunk of bread, two carrots, and a goblet of water that he downed in one go. It tasted slightly of rum.

    “How was your first day, little rat?” one of the pirates asked.

    Bard’s eyes fell on the man who had found the wine in the hold of the _Thrush_. He was gangly and dark-haired with a pointed face and eyes so bright green they were almost yellow, like a cat's.

    “This is Galion,” Nimrodel introduced promptly, saving Bard the humiliation of having to answer the question. “He’s the Sailing Master.”

    Galion tipped his hat to Bard, simpering.

    “Glorfindel, our poor excuse for a Quartermaster and designated mother-figure.” Glorfindel waved his stump at Bard as he grabbed another piece of bread, a pear wedged in his mouth.

    “Feren, whom I’m sure you remember. He’s the Boatswain.” Feren did not react. 

    “Lethuin – who stole your shoes – and that’s Meludir.” Nimrodel indicated the youthful pirate with the shaved head and eye-patch. He had a round face and grin that went easily from ear-to-ear. Bard was reminded very strongly of a pixie.

    “And I’m Nimrodel.” Nimrodel flashed Bard a flattering smile and then drained her goblet.

    “How come you’re allowed on board?” Bard said before he could think not to.

    The men booed at him and Nimrodel frowned. “Because I’m a woman? Honestly, boy, it’s the seventeenth century – where’s your head?”

    “Sorry,” Bard mumbled sheepishly, attempting to recover himself. “I just thought – er – that a woman wouldn’t want to be a pirate.”

    Nimrodel gave a little _hmph_ of disapproval, but said, “No, I suppose you’re right. It certainly wasn’t my plan to get mixed up with these mischief-makers.”

    “None of us wanted this,” Feren grumbled, tearing a piece of bread in half.

    “Yeah, but we like it just fine,” said Glorfindel, nudging Feren with some affection. “Better than working for the King, that’s for sure.”

    “You used to work for the King?” Bard said in amazement.

    Glorfindel nodded. “I used to be a Lord! I had a decent life, little rat, and an incredible income. And then I went chasing treasure with this pack of dogs. And I lost my hand! I lost my title, my house, and my hand!” He waved his right arm dramatically.

    “You’re all traitors to the crown, then?” Bard said, trying to keep his tone casual so as not to cause offence, though he dearly wanted to.

    “Yep!” Lethuin said. He folded his hands behind his mass of dark dreadlocks and grinned. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

    Bard didn’t reply, but started eating his carrots. Knowing now that these pirates had once served the King made him feel even worse for being on their ship, which had likely been stolen from the King’s fleet, as he had suspected. Bard wondered how Captain Thranduil had managed to recruit such men, and why they had left the service of a good and just monarch for that of an ill-tempered treasure-seeker. Bard didn’t understand it, but a part of him didn’t want to. He didn’t want to care about these pirates. He didn’t want to take their side in any shape or form.

    “Well, I prefer it,” Nimrodel cut in. “I was a maid, you know. Pirating fairs better wages, if you ask me.”

    “Yeah, but what’s the point of plundering and pirating if you’re not going to live long enough to see it invested?” said Feren moodily.

    “Quit joking around, Feren!” Galion reproached. “The rat is already frightened of you. There’s no need to instil in him your old bitterness towards piracy.”

    Feren’s hard expression broke at last into a toothy, honest grin. “I can’t help it. It’s the best form of hazing. And it lowers his expectations so that the gold feels better when he finally gets his little paws on them.” He pretended to rub two coins together.

    “I don’t know… I think Lethuin nicking his shoes was really funny,” piped up Meludir.

    “You think everything Lethuin does is funny!” Nimrodel snapped.

    “Are you trying to say I’m not funny?” Lethuin said, rising slightly as if to threaten Nimrodel.

    Bard felt his ears grow hot as the pirates bickered, but he decided to remain quiet and finish his food. He wished there was some meat, but he had a feeling the pork on Thranduil’s table last night had been the last of it. Bard instead revelled in the fruit and vegetables – however bruised – as such things had been non-existent aboard the _Thrush_.

    The conversation soon turned to Imladris and Bard pricked his ears to hear about it as he didn’t know what or where it was. But footsteps coming up behind him caused the chatter to die down almost at once.

    Captain Thranduil was walking over from his cabin, black boots heavy against the decking. His long hair swept over his shoulders in the breeze. He looked less like the pirate he was without his hat and Bard felt an almost lordly presence about him, though it was perhaps just his imagination.

    “Any luck with our future heading?” Galion inquired as Thranduil arrived at Bard’s side.

    “Not yet. I think I will enlist some help when we reach Imladris. Bard; a word.”

    Stunned at being spoken to, Bard set what was left of his carrot on the table and hurried after Thranduil back to the Captain’s cabin.

    Thranduil opened the door and allowed Bard to enter first. He did so, trembling slightly.

    “Have you reached a decision?” Thranduil said, shutting the door.

    “I’m sorry?” said Bard.

    “About my proposition.” Thranduil sat down at the table and gazed down at the maps there. There was a goblet of wine in front of him. Bard thought it was probably the wine they had taken from the _Thrush._

    “Oh. Well, I don’t really see the point in choosing at all as you’ve already assigned me a bunk and had me work on your ship,” he said bitterly.

    “True,” said Thranduil. “But I prefer my crew to have the right mentality for piracy. I see little benefit in forcing someone to work for me. It’s easier to be mutinied upon that way.”

    “I hardly think that could happen. I am only one man.”

    Thranduil looked up at this, scrutinising Bard. “One man can make all the difference,” he said.

    Bard stood awkwardly at the table, uncertain if he ought to speak or if Thranduil’s silence meant he was dismissed. But, considering he had just been robbed of it being explained to him, Bard plucked up his courage and asked;

    “What’s Imladris?”

    Thranduil smiled at this.

    “I’m glad you asked, actually, as I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” he said, leaning back in his chair. He gestured for Bard to sit down as well. “Imladris is a pirate port – you may know it as Rivendell. We sail there in search of a crew, but a very specific one. An old friend of mine recently settled down after a good career of piracy and I need you to help me convince him to set sail once again. He owes me a favour, but that won’t be enough to get him on board a ship.”

    “What makes you think I will help you?” Bard said doggedly.

    Thranduil’s smiled widened. “Are you keen to be drowned, then?” he said.

    Bard huffed at this, crossing his arms. This was cruelly unfair. “Fine. How am I to convince this friend of yours?”

    “Though much of his crew has disbanded, many of them still linger about his wife’s tavern. They are desperate to taste open waters again, but don’t wish to sail under any other captain. However, if you promise them that Elrond will command them once more, it will in turn persuade him to join me in my quest. My plan is to have it go full-circle among them,” Thranduil said, twirling a long, ringed finger through the air.

    “Why are you so determined to recruit these pirates in particular?” Bard mused.

    “They’re good men, and the quest… well, it’s in their list of interests, let’s put it like that.”

    “What kind of treasure are you after?”

    Thranduil’s eyes flashed and he glared at Bard. “Never you mind. You’ve sworn no fealty to me just yet. I’m not foolish enough to laden you with such important information so that you can escape with it. And I’ll be keeping a close eye on you while we stay in Imladris, as we will be there for a few days.”

    Bard scoffed. This was ridiculous. Why couldn’t Thranduil just let him go? What was the point in him being here? He didn’t know  _that_ much about the quest, and it wasn’t like he was brave enough to go to the King with what information he did have. Honestly, Bard just wanted to go home. He didn’t want to even think about Captain Thranduil or the _Eryn Lasgalen_ ever again.

    “Am I free to go?” he said tersely.

    Thranduil did not look impressed, but he nodded. Bard rose from the chair and left the cabin, suddenly aware of how fast his heart was beating. He hated this. In any other circumstance, he might have been happy just to sleep off his anger and frustration, but the thought of sleeping below deck with those pirates just made the anger and frustration worse.

    Bard considered the pirates for a moment. He didn’t want to join them again, but they had drilled in him a curiosity that was hard to squash. What had made them trade their honest service to the King for a life of piracy?

    But Bard firmly reminded himself that he didn’t want to know. A pirate was a pirate; it didn’t matter where they came from.

 

    Bard elected to keep to himself as busy as possible while aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_. He spoke almost exclusively to Glorfindel, who gave him jobs to do. After the incident on Bard’s first day, the Quartermaster had evidently decided not to risk his other hand and distributed jobs evenly among the crew. But Bard was insistent towards being constantly distracted with tasks and went to Glorfindel frequently. Very soon, there was nothing left for anyone to do for hours at a time and the days passed in a warm, uneventful blur.

    At night, the pirates drank and played games, so Bard explored the ship. It seemed endless in its mysteries and size, like a labyrinth of ladders and decks and quarters. He found a great deal of weapons in the hold. Racks upon racks hung with cutlasses, muskets, pistols, and axes. There were dozens of barrels of gunpowder and more cannons than Bard could count, and he actually tried to one night when he was particularly bored.

    He also dug up a nest of rats, which he disposed of, and found barrels of wine and rum and ale, though wasn’t tempted to take any. The food stocks were quite bare, but there was still plenty to go around, and Bard marvelled at the pirates’ taste for decent food. They claimed only to resort to gruel and hard tack when there was absolutely nothing else. Bard wondered if it was an acquired taste they had developed, having once been under the King’s jurisdiction.

    They finally were near the end of their journey when Bard asked about this, far too intrigued now to ignore it. He was young, but stories were still told among the sailors of previous Commodores and Lieutenants and Lords and Bard had never heard any involving this particular bunch of men, which was peculiar as their surnames were quite uncommon.

    It was Glorfindel who answered, smirking broadly. “You probably have heard of us, just not by these names. When we went on account, we abandoned our surnames in favour for our first. Even Captain Thranduil doesn’t use his last name.”

    “But why?” Bard said.

    “It severs the ties we have to our families. We didn’t want to bring any further shame to them or ourselves,” Feren explained as he cut a bit of mould out of his cheese and tossed it into the sea.

    “I was once a Lord of the House of the Golden Flower,” said Glorfindel, tossing back his hair proudly. “And Feren here was set to become the youngest Lieutenant in the Navy – and a damn good one, too. He was the finest sailor they had.”

    “And the rest of you?”

    “I was the King’s advisor,” said Galion, putting his feet up on a barrel. “Well, one of his advisors. Easily his best. Lethuin was the son of another. And Meludir we picked up after boarding a Navy ship, like what we’ve done with you.”

    “And Nimrodel? You were a maid, right?” Bard looked at her and she giggled.

    “I served the Queen,” she said. She pretended to lift an invisible skirt and curtsied perfectly in her breeches.

    Bard was beyond stunned. Not only had these pirates served the King, but had held very respectful positions. It didn’t make sense. Why would they give up everything for this sort of life; the life of a thief and a liar and a plunderer?

    “How long have you been pirates?” he asked.

    “Six years,” said Lethuin, counting on his fingers.

    “Six years?” repeated Bard, thinking hard. “Only seven of you have crewed this ship for six years?”

    A silence fell over the pirates and they exchanged very solemn looks with one another. There was a pregnant pause, and then Nimrodel spoke;

    “Most of our number are no longer with us,” she said softly. “There were once more than twenty of us, but we were chased off the coast of Erebor by the King’s fleet that awaited us there. We are all that is left.”

    Bard didn’t want to offer any condolences, but he felt sorry for the pirates all the same. The death of friends and colleagues was no easy burden to bear. The look on Glorfindel’s face told him that.

    “Four years of searching –” Feren spat on the ground maliciously. “– just for the treasure to be lost to us again.”

    Bewildered, Bard raised an eyebrow. How important could this treasure be to these people? Surely there were chests and valuables to found elsewhere. What was so significant about what they were looking for?

    “And what about Thranduil?” he said, trying to lighten the mood.

    “ _Captain_ Thranduil,” Nimrodel admonished.

    Glorfindel seemed to come out of his reverie at this and he looked at Bard with a hint of amusement. “You really don’t know who he is?” he said.

    “Should I?” said Bard indignantly.

    The others laughed, but his question was not answered. Grumbling, Bard took an apple from the table and went for a walk. He hadn’t really admitted it to himself thus far, but Thranduil’s name did sound somewhat familiar. He had definitely heard it somewhere before.

    Thranduil was on the quarterdeck. He had his hands on the wheel and he was staring listlessly out to sea. He looked very tired; even the feathers in his hat seemed to droop with lethargy. He had spent most of the past few days locked in his cabin, studying the maps there. Bard wanted to know what treasure he was looking for.

    Leaning over the railing of the ship, Bard ate his apple and stared at the calm sea below. It lapped at the hull and he even caught sight of some fish swimming at the keel. Then, he turned his head to the right and saw a ship.

    Bard straightened up, squinting to see it properly. It was flying the royal colours. They were being followed.

    For a moment, Bard thought about not saying anything. If the ship gained on them without the pirates knowing, perhaps they would be taken and he could go home. But he weighed his options quickly. If the _Eryn Lasgalen_ was captured, Bard would be killed for good measure for knowing what he knew about Thranduil's quest. And, deep down, Bard had become more than a little curious about him and his crew and their treasure. 

    He climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck and pointed across the water.

    “We have company."

    Thranduil turned to look behind him and Bard saw the colour drain from his face. He whipped back to face the ship, his knuckles white on the steering.

    “All hands! Show her heels!”

    Visibly stunned, the pirates all jumped to their feet and began to dart about the ship, unfurling the main sail. Bard, unsure of how to make good use of himself without direct orders, stood nervously on the deck, watching. Thranduil was spinning the wheel, making a hard turn to the starboard side. Bard grabbed hold of the rope around the mizzen mast as the ship gave an almighty lurch. Surely they weren’t going to fight?

    But no. The ship turned ninety degrees and Thranduil let go of the wheel. It spun out of control. Then, the wind caught in the sails and the ship streaked through the water, away from their destination. Thranduil grabbed hold of the wheel again.

    “Captain, we should turn and fight!” Galion said, hurrying up the stairs. “If we head west, we won’t reach Imladris for another week, if at all.”

    “We have no other choice,” Thranduil hissed. “We cannot withstand an assault from a warship.”

    “But if we load the cannons –”

    “Who will fire them? I’m not risking it, Galion. I’m not losing anyone else.”

    Bard saw a flicker of fear in Thranduil’s eyes as he cast them to the ship in pursuit. It altered direction as the _Eryn Lasgalen_ ploughed on, considerably faster since it was smaller and built for speed.

    It was a stressful evening. Thranduil refused to lead the Navy to their destination. As a result, they were miles off-course and being carried further and further away from Imladris. Thranduil remained at the wheel at all times while the rest of the crew wrung their hands and manned the sails. Bard hovered here and there, wishing he didn’t have to run from his own men, and wondering how long they had been following the pirates for. He hated that he was only safe so long as the pirates were free. It was so immoral it made him feel nauseous.

    They lost the Navy ship in the middle of the night. The lamps were not lit and they were kept hidden by the clouds covering the moon. The Royal Navy fell behind and Thranduil permitted the crew to rest, though he himself did not, obviously not prepared to let his guard down just yet. Before going below deck to sleep, Bard studied Thranduil for a moment. He did not seem like the type to run from a fight, but something about the King’s Navy obviously had him scared. Bard was beginning to wonder if his success with the _Thrush_ hadn’t been thanks to an old friendship with a certain Commodore who had told the crew not to attack Thranduil and his men.

    Sighing, Bard went to his bunk and slept, his bones aching. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to be involved anymore. He just wanted to go home.


	3. Midgewater

“Land ahoy!”

    It was the third day of being pursued by the Royal Navy. Bard was exhausted and sunburnt and couldn’t even begin to describe the relief that surged in his heart at the thought of land.  He was in as foul a mood as everyone else after three long days of looking over their shoulders. He leaned over the edge of the _Eryn Lasgalen_ to see a strip of land far in the distance ahead of them. Beyond it, he could see rolling hills and mountains and mist. He recognised it, too. He had been here before.

    It was Meludir who had shouted. He was in the crow’s nest, looking at the land through a telescope with his good eye. He shut it with a snap, buckled it, and then swung out of the nest. He climbed down the rigging and landed like an acrobat on the deck, stretching his gangly limbs like an absurdly tall monkey.

    “We’ve strayed too far from Imladris,” Galion murmured next to Bard. “Captain! Are we to make port?

    Thranduil was sitting at a table on the helm, staring at maps, his jaw set. He had not reacted to Meludir’s shout, having been extremely on edge ever since the Royal Navy had reappeared on the horizon two days previously. He was irritable and drank a great deal of wine and rum (or whatever was at hand at the time). He seemed to be muttering to himself, running a finger along the map and checking a compass, ignoring Galion completely.

    Bard took a deep breath and went up to the quarterdeck. Galion followed him, looking anxious.

    “We’re coming up to Weathertop. We could try and lose them.” Bard pointed on the map to a scattering of small islands in the middle of the ocean. He saw that Weathertop was not marked where it ought to be. In its place was ‘Amon Sûl.’

    Thranduil started, as if perturbed to realise there were other people on board his ship. He blinked up at Bard wearily, his eyes red from lack of sleep. “I know nothing of this place.”

    “It’s a new colony under the King’s jurisdiction,” Bard explained. “Part of the New World.”

    “How does this help us?” Galion asked.

    “The people of the Weather Hills are rarely given the chance to pay homage to the King or his men as the island is so small and mostly mountains. The Governor there is an excitable man - I've met him briefly. If he sees the Royal Navy approaching, he will want to hold a festival to honour its arrival. We were greeted as such during our passage to the Shire. As pirates, we – _you_ – cannot make port there, but I doubt anyone will notice so long as we keep our heads down.”

    “And then what?” said Thranduil.

    “We wait for the sailors to be greeted and distracted and we head back the way we came. Where’s Imladris?”

    Thranduil indicated an island on the map, very far from the larger countries, but closest to that of Greenwood. Bard saw that, if Weathertop was in their sights, they had passed Imladris completely. They were hundreds of miles off-course.

    “That is a fool’s plan, little rat,” said Galion.

    “You got any better ideas?” Bard retorted.

    Thranduil shook his head. “It won’t work, Bard. We will be taken as soon as arrive, if not once the Navy get there. We can’t rely on the townspeople to cover for us, unless you have connections in Amon Sûl.”

    Bard sighed, rubbing his face, which bore the evidence of lethargy and many months at sea, just as Percy’s had done. He didn’t know why he bothered to make suggestions, but he was just so tired and frustrated that he was prepared to do anything that actively assisted in evading the Navy. If it meant land and food and rest, then he was willing to do whatever it took.

    “What’s this?” Thranduil said. The jewels and rings on his fingers sparkling in the sun as he followed a line through the mountains where the words ‘Midgewater,’ were written.

    “It’s a river. It flows into the mountains,” said Bard, remembering it from a couple of months ago.  “But it’s incredibly narrow. Large ships aren’t recommended to sail through it.”

    At this, Thranduil’s face brightened and he shot an eager look to his Sailing Master. Galion stared at Thranduil in disbelief. Bard’s mouth fell open.

    “You don’t mean to sail through it? There are rocks! We’ll never make it to the other side.”

    “It’s the best option we have right now,” said Thranduil. Already a great deal more chipper, he stood up from his chair, taking a bottle of rum with him to regard the Navy at the rudder. They were barely a speck on the horizon, but still visible. “You say the river is narrow...”

    Bard’s eyes trailed Thranduil’s to the pursuing ship. For a moment, he wasn’t sure what Thranduil meant, but then he caught on.

    “You want to get them stuck,” he muttered.

    “You can’t possibly hope for that to work,” said Galion behind them.

    Thranduil glanced back at him, his eyes glittering with an adrenaline-fueled optimism Bard had never seen. “No matter what we do, we risk getting captured. But if we can trap these rats in Midgewater, at least we stand a chance of escaping them completely. That ship is monstrous; we might make it through, but they can't possibly."

    “Your orders, then, Captain?” said Galion, rather unimpressed with this supposed plan.

    “Steady as she goes, and trim the sail. Slow us down a bit,” said Thranduil. He kept his eyes fixed on the Navy. “Await my command when we arrive.”

 

    They sailed without hindrance for some hours with the Navy gradually gaining on them. It would be another day or more before they reached the Weather Hills, but the entire crew were tense and restless. They moved very little, watching the approaching land with much apprehension. When the sun set and night fell, they lit the lanterns and built a fire for the first time in days, not bothering now to keep their position at night a secret. The men gathered around it, nursing bottles of rum or ale. Bard sat slightly apart from them, curled up on some barrels and looking over the black water.

    “Here, little rat,” said Nimrodel, handing Bard a bottle of rum and some stale bread. “You’ll need it.”

    “Thanks.”

    “Do you think this plan is going to work?” she said, sitting beside him.

    Bard looked at her, quite perplexed that she would ask him for his opinion. He shrugged, setting down the rum and tearing at the bread with some effort.

    “The ship looks really wide now,” Nimrodel commented before adding; “If you splash some rum on your bread, it’ll soften.”

    “If we get stuck, we can always escape in the longboats,” Bard suggested, uncorking the rum.

    “I suppose so. It will set us back months, though. The sooner we get to Imladris, the sooner we find the treasure.”

    Bard rolled his eyes. “What is it with you lot and this treasure? What’s so special about it?”

    Nimrodel's expression was quite blank, but Bard could see that she was analysing him, as though unsure if she should answer. “Now is not the time to tell you. But take heed, little rat, for when that time does come, you will have to make a decision.”

    “I thought my fate as a pirate was already chosen,” said Bard sourly.

    Nimrodel let out a short, hollow laugh. “I’m not talking about that. You may be well on your way to becoming a pirate whether you want to or not, but you still have to choose whose side you’re on.”

    She got down from the barrel and left Bard to his thoughts. He didn’t know what she meant by sides, but if it concerned choosing between the pirates and the King, Bard was going to side with the King. There was no morality or humility to be had in dealing with pirates. He didn’t like them and he didn’t trust them.

    They all went to bed early that night, tired from the stressors of the past few days and knowing they would be up before dawn the next morning. Bard was dreading the upcoming journey. He had seen the entrance to Midgewater. It broke through Amon Sûl and the mountains on the other side, narrow and strewn with rocks. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to enjoy his last days at sea.

   

    Glorfindel woke them.

    “Up! Wake up! All hands to stations!”

    Startled, Bard rolled over and fell out of his bunk with a thud. He wasn’t alone, either, as Meludir and Feren had followed him to the floor of the gun deck in their surprise at being woken. Groaning and yawning, the crew dressed quickly and ran upstairs where an icy wind snapped at their fingers.

    The Weather Hills were in full view now, less than a mile away. The Royal Navy were closing in, having finally caught up during the night. Thranduil was at the helm of the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , turning it towards a gap in the mountains ahead. Midgewater.

    Bard ran across the deck to help trim the sails as instructed. They caught in the wind and the ship was thrown forward with a burst of speed, headed straight for the river. The immediate opening was wide enough for two ships to enter abreast, but it quickly fell into a thin paring of water, flanked on either side by grey mountain rock. The way it had formed itself made it look like someone had dug through the mountains and let the sea run in between.

    They were approaching fast now. The wind was in their favour and they once more outstripped the Navy, catching them by surprise. Though it was only a temporary lead, it was all they needed for the plan to be set into motion.

    The _Eryn Lasgalen_ slid into the river easily. Bard could see the harbour town at its mouth and people staring and shouting at them from below, cautioning the Captain against proceeding. Thranduil did not even turn his head to acknowledge them.

    “Strike all sails!”

    Swallowing his fear and nerves, Bard helped with furling the sails, working as fast as he could in the chilly dawn. And just in time, too, as the mountain sides drew in tightly around the ship and its long, misty shadows loomed over the deck. They began to slow. The sails were drawn up and the foreyards rotated out of the way of the rocks so that only the steady water carried them into the pass.

    Looking behind, the Navy were coming up into the river as well, approaching the narrow gap. Thranduil concentrated on steering the ship, but the others ran to the quarterdeck to watch the pursuers. Nimrodel chewed her fingernails and Meludir peered through his telescope to see what the crew were doing.

    “They’re gaining on us, Captain,” he said. “They’re going to make it through.”

    Thranduil glanced back for a moment, concerned. But his face broke into a grin. “Not with full canvas, they won’t,” he said.

    And he was quite right. As the Navy ship made it to the narrow cleft in the mountains, one of their foreyards hit the rock and snapped with a deafening crack that echoed through the pass. Thranduil started to laugh. That echoed too. As they swept further in, everything began to reverberate against the mountains.

    “We’re not out of this yet,” Galion reproved. “They can still sail with one broken foreyard. They’re not as big as we thought, Captain.”

    “Give it time,” Thranduil said fiercely, turning his attention on the wheel again. “They will know their mistake soon enough.”

    Bard wasn’t at all positive on the matter, but as the _Eryn Lasgalen_ sailed on through the mountains, the Navy ship began to fall back. Though the sailors had been smart enough to furl their sails, the wide body of their vessel allowed very little room for it to move. It bumped into the sides of the mountains, sending cracking echoes down to the pirates. It turned this way and that to avoid the rocks in the water, but barely another hour followed before the ship came to a grinding stop, the panels of wood chipping and splintering as it became wedged in between both sides of the mountain.

    Thranduil and his crew cheered, laughing and jeering at the sailors. Even Bard couldn’t help but feel elated too. The plan had worked so far. All they needed to do now was get to the other side of the river and backtrack to Imladris.

    Glorfindel took over the wheel so that Thranduil could get some well-deserved rest. The Quartermaster looked a little nervous to be navigating such treacherous waters with only one hand, but he slid his right stump through the handles of the wheel and set to with resolve. Bard went with the others to get rum, thirsty and tired as they were. They all agreed that, whether they got stuck later or not, it would be better with food and rum in their bellies.

    The journey through the river proved quite promising, if at times nerve-wracking. Every now and then, the side of the ship would brush up against the mountain and rocks would fall on deck. But these were quickly disposed of, thrown over the side when there was room to allow it. The foreyards were kept out of the way and, all too soon, the Royal Navy was well out of sight, still trying to budge their ship from the rocks.

    Bard felt relieved, in the end. True, they hadn’t escaped just yet, but he was warm with rum and sleepy and at least no one was chasing them anymore. He went to his bunk that night and slept soundly for the first time in days.

   

    “We’ll make port in Bree,” Thranduil announced the next morning. They had almost made it to the end of the river. The gap was clear, there was open sea was in front of them, and no one was behind.

    “Thank God,” said Feren as he climbed out of the hold, pulling on a clean shirt.

    “I thought Bree was part of the Shire?” said Bard.

    “For technicality’s sake, it is,” said Galion. “But its people aren’t loyal to the King, so pirates are free to come and go as long as they don’t cause trouble. We can resupply before we sail for Imladris.”

    The crew were granted rest that day. They played games for a while and bickered amongst themselves. Bard was happy to watch or lie on crates in the sun, but the pirates soon turned their attentions to him and his training in the Navy. Feren wasn’t convinced sailors were trained the way they once were and was quite eager to be right about it. Bard was given a cutlass and instructed to spar.

    His fingers curled about the hilt of the weapon. For a moment, Bard thought about slicing through everyone and making his own choices for once, but he didn’t dare try and match the pirates, especially since he was well outnumbered. And besides, he had started to grow a bit fond of them, even if they were on the wrong side in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t an affectionate type of fondness, but perhaps just the tiniest inkling of respect.

    Feren took the first blow. Bard blocked it as best he could, his hand shaking slightly. Then he returned the hit and Feren blocked, after which they paused.

    “How do you hold your sword?” Feren said, tutting. “Put your thumb here. No, trust me.”

    They went again. Bard swung his sword, aiming for places he knew Feren could easily parry. But Feren grew bored within seconds and stopped once more.

    “Why do you keep doing that?” he demanded.

    “Doing what?” said Bard.

    “Thrusting your sword. You’re very stiff in your movements.”

    “Well, forgive me, but I haven’t held a sword in weeks,” Bard said peevishly.

    “That’s not it,” Feren said, shaking his head. “Your swings are too formal. Even when sparring, you have to use your head. Don’t be afraid to fight dirty.”

    “But it’s dishonest to fight dirty."

    To his left, the others laughed.  

    “Listen, son, when you fight a pirate, he’s not going to be merciful. You fight to win, not show off your fancy training.”

    Bard glared at Feren, but readied himself to start again. This time, he thrust his sword forward and when Feren lifted his own to parry, Bard threw out his leg, spun on his heel, and kicked Feren in the waist. He was sent stumbling across the deck.

    “Better,” he said, clutching his side and chuckling. “But that won’t help you in a fight. That move, however fast you do it, leaves you vulnerable for long enough to be killed. Using your feet is good, but you should aim for short, powerful kicks towards the knee. Flourishes like that won’t get you anywhere. I easily could have cut my sword through your back before your foot even touched me.”

    Bard huffed, but nodded, gripping the cutlass tighter. Feren noticed this.

    “Don’t hold it so tight. You’ll strain your hand and it decreases your endurance. Come on; you’re fighting, not churning butter. Again. Parry, then attack.”

    Feren cut through the air with his cutlass. It met Bard’s with a clash of steel, the sound echoing through the mountains like their voices did. He held for a moment, thinking.

    “You have to think faster than that,” said Feren, adding more pressure to his weapon.

    Bard ducked and slid his sword to the point of Feren’s. He flung it down to meet Feren’s waist, but stopping short of actually hurting him.

    “Good, but again, you’re vulnerable here,” Feren said. He moved his sword as if to cut off Bard’s head. Bard shivered. “Always pay attention to your opponent. Remember that he’s fighting you as well.”

    They sparred for an hour more. The pirates took it in turns, each of them teaching Bard something different. He couldn’t keep up, really, but he had to admit their tips were useful. Though he hoped he would never have to use them.

    They reached the end of the river in the late afternoon. Bard, tired from sparring, was lying on some crates in the shade of the forecastle. The mountains made the air very suffocating and it wearied the crew. Bard was just about ready to fall asleep when over the top of his head he heard;

    “Hoist sail! Full canvas!”

    Jerking upright, Bard scrambled off the crates and climbed the rigging to the sails. It was slow work to unfurl them all with only six members, but thankfully they were no longer in pursuit and didn’t have to hasten the job. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ crept out of the river and drifted into the open sea. Then, as the sails billowed out, the wind fell in and they were pushed forward, gathering speed again.

    The wind felt good. It had been all but non-existent in the mountain pass. Bard closed his eyes against it, inhaling deeply the fresh, salty air.  

    The pirates bellowed with happiness. Nimrodel even grabbed Bard by the arm and swung him around on deck, grinning. They had made it. They were safe once more. Bard couldn’t help but smile, at least for their joy, though he felt little of it himself. It was a bittersweet victory.

    Thranduil came down to the deck, smiling. He looked very pleased with himself and his face was handsomely flushed from the sun. He flexed his hands and then nodded to Bard, gesturing to his cabin. Perplexed, Bard left the pirates to their celebrations (more rum). He and Thranduil had barely spoken between their last exchange in the cabin and Bard’s suggestion about Weathertop. He found he had very little to say to Thranduil, and Thranduil to him. But Bard didn’t take it personally. He was quite relieved by it, in fact. Thranduil was a pirate, and there was no good to come of being friends with pirates.

    “I wanted to thank you for your help in evading the Navy,” Thranduil said when Bard had closed the cabin door.

    “Thank me?”

    “Yes. I did not expect you to offer any assistance, and I am grateful for it.” Thranduil held his gaze with Bard very deliberately, causing him to shift uncomfortably on his feet.

    “You’re welcome, I guess. I don’t really know why I did it. I shouldn’t care if you get captured.” While this was the truth, Bard said it mostly to get on Thranduil’s nerves.

    Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “An interesting thing for you to say, considering how well you get along with my crew,” he said thoughtfully. “They like you.”

    “So?” said Bard, incensed. He didn’t like them at all.

    Thranduil smirked. “They don’t like anyone.”

    Bard remained silent, his heart skittering. Had Thranduil summoned him here just to tell him he was well-liked by a pack of scoundrels? It was quite insulting, really. He was a good and honest sailor. Once upon a time, he’d never had anything to do with pirates – nasty, rum-soaked, dirty people he thought them to be – and now that his clean record was broken, he found he rather missed not knowing what it felt like to take orders from them. It didn’t matter how much better their food was compared to that of the Navy, or how immaculately dressed they were (less so without an audience, but still lacking in grime and mud), a pirate was a pirate, and Bard was determined to hate them, even if he respected them.

    But in spite of this, Thranduil’s behaviour was so ill-fitted to that of piracy that it made Bard curious of him, rather than vindictive (as he would have liked to be). In fact, the whole crew and their ludicrous venture for treasure was unlike anything Bard had ever witnessed. He felt that they could hardly call themselves pirates given their collective attitude and way of operating. If Bard didn’t know any better (and he wished he didn’t), he might have thought Thranduil and his men to be privateers, not pirates. They seemed far too set on their quest to suggest it was just typical plunder. Bard ached to know more about it.

    All-in-all, Bard found himself in the rather awkward position of wanting to go on account just to sate his curiosity, while simultaneously wanting to jump ship and swim back through Midgewater to rejoin the Navy.

    Thranduil was looking at Bard, as though trying to study his train of thought. When Bard caught his eye, he smiled. “I am not at all surprised by your reluctance to join my crew,” he said. “I confess I am disappointed, but I have been quite unfair to you.”

    Bard was tempted to disagree – he believed he had been treated more than fairly, seeing as he had technically been taken prisoner – but he did not speak.

    “I have considered more than once whether or not to tell you of the nature of my crew and our quest,” Thranduil went on, taking a few steps here and there, as though wanting to pace the room, but not break eye-contact with Bard. “But our place in this world is no longer here to be justified. And I do not think you would believe, even if you were told.”

    “Humour me,” said Bard, folding his arms.

    Thranduil hummed a small laugh, but shook his head. “It is not a story that should be told by me. You should hear it from someone you trust.”

    “Who?”

    “We are meeting more than one old friend of mine when we arrive at Imladris.”

    “Commodore Minyatur, you mean?” Bard supplied coldly.

    Thranduil’s face lit up. “Oh, you figured that out, did you? Excellent. Yes, he will be joining us. We were supposed to wait for him, but as circumstances have changed… it doesn’t matter. No doubt he will be happy to see you.”

    “Can’t say the same for myself,” said Bard. “I don’t approve of traitors to the crown.”

    Thranduil hissed at this, his charm dissipating as he glared at Bard. “Traitors to the crown? Those who defy the false King are loyal to the true monarch.”

    Bard was taken aback by this outburst, but he rounded his shoulders in defiance. “King Oropher _is_ the true monarch. Your disdain towards him does not grant you the right to forsake him impartially. Just because your morals differ does not mean his cannot be upheld by those who serve. I don’t know what your history is with His Majesty, but do not think I will take your side because of it. There’s a right and a wrong choice to make in all of life’s endeavours. I am only doing what I think to be just.”

    Thranduil laughed. He threw back his silver head and roared with laughter. Then, very abruptly, he stopped. “You’re the pride of the King’s Navy,” he spat. “Blind, faithful, unquestioning; a good little sailor.”

    Thranduil's eyes were wild with hatred now. He lowered his gaze, his hair falling in sheets over his face, and Bard heard him mutter; “And I thought you might have been different. So much spirit and it’s wasted on a tyrant; on a monster.”

    Then, it hit Bard; hit him like cannon fire. “You’re his son."

    Thranduil’s eyes flew back to meet Bard’s, a glimmer of fear in them. For a second, Bard could have sworn he was looking into the ocean.

    “That’s why I knew your name; you’re the King’s son,” Bard said quietly, awed by this realisation.

    “Not anymore."

    “I heard you were dead,” Bard added lamely.

    Thranduil snorted, moving to the table now that he was no longer interested in keeping eye contact with Bard. “A rumour – one of many – none of which are true.”

    “Then how is it that you are a pirate? Why do you hate the King? What’s the real story?” Bard demanded, taking a few steps forward.

    “I already explained that it’s not my place to tell you.”

    Bard clenched his fists. He didn’t want to leave without a proper answer. To sail under the command of the once and future King of Greenwood was no easy burden to bear. He didn’t want to live another day in deception. Why had he, Bard, been taken aboard? What exactly was in the chest Thranduil had removed from the _Thrush_? What treasure was he searching for? Why did he defy his own father?

    “You can’t expect me to leave after you’ve confessed to being the Prince,” Bard said.

    This had obviously been the wrong thing to say. As though his fury had finally peaked, Thranduil grabbed whatever was closest to him and flung it at Bard.

    He ducked as a bottle of rum hurtled for his head. It smashed on the wall behind him.

    “Get out.”

    Bard didn’t need telling twice. He wrenched open the door and exited the cabin. The whole crew, who had evidently been listening, were staring at him in dismay. Bard opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, so he went below deck.

    He couldn’t face the pirates now. All this time he had been serving a Prince and not even known it. Bard wasn't sure if he ought to feel angry or stupid. As a result, he felt a very poisonous mixture of the two and refused to emerge from the hold where he had settled himself among some flour sacks.

    It was all very puzzling and infuriating. Bard was now very much looking forward to talking to his old Commodore and finally getting to the bottom of this ridiculous mystery. Whatever it was, he was all the more determined not to take Thranduil’s side. It couldn’t at all be justified. Prince of Greenwood or not, a pirate was a pirate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of you guessed that Thranduil is the defiant son of the king (it was pretty obvious, I'll admit, especially given my reputation for lousy father-figures)  
> As a side note: Greenwood is the country, Laketown is a harbour town/port. Like Port Royal in Pirates of the Caribbean (the country being Jamaica).  
>   
> Nautical terms:  
> Full canvas - unfurl all sails.  
> Foreyard - poles attached horizontally to the masts that carry the sails.  
> Cutlass - sword.


	4. Petty Thievery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's the point of this chapter? There isn't one. Groovy. I wrote it very fast.

Bard had put Captain Thranduil in a very wretched mood. This was bad news for the entire crew, as they were all required to put up with his snappy temper and biting sarcasm. And they did not thank Bard for it. They were pleasant to him most of the time, but if ever Thranduil emerged from his cabin to bark orders at them, they turned on Bard with sneers and dirty looks. And when they sparred, Bard was challenged with exceptional vigour.

    Thranduil, on the other hand, ignored him completely. This suited Bard just fine, except that it made him feel a foul combination of guilty and annoyed.

    “Should I apologise?” he finally dared to ask.

    Nimrodel shook her head. “There’s no point. He won’t accept an apology, stubborn git.”

    It was morning, two days after their narrow escape from the Navy. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ was sailing into the Brandywine, Bree’s harbour. Bard eagerly helped with preparing the ship to make port. He couldn’t wait to set his feet on land again. While he enjoyed sailing, he was getting very tired of Thranduil’s attitude and the pirates' jeers.

    He was all but handcuffed to Feren when they dropped the anchor. The pirates laden themselves with waterskins, baskets and bags and they ambled down the wide plank to the docks. Bard noticed they were all dressed in nice clothes again and he, not bestowed with such a privilege, looked more like a pirate than any of them. His hair was in desperate need of a wash and his breeches and shirt were dirty with sweat and grime. It set him apart from the others in a rather undignified way.  

    Thranduil paid a man at the dock a gold coin for permission to tie the _Eryn Lasgalen_ there. With a jerk of his head, he indicated his crew to follow. Bard looked back at the ship with worry in the pit of his stomach. Was Thranduil so trusting of folk as to leave it unattended, even in a small port?

    But then Bard realised one of their number was missing. Evidently Galion had stayed behind to mind the ship.

    They wound their way through the docks. Bard revelled in the firm wood and soil beneath his feet, stumbling slightly at the lack of its movement. He carried a basket and several bags on his shoulders. It would be a miracle for all of them to carry quite so much back to the ship full of supplies.

    “Make one move to escape, little rat, and I’ll shoot you in the leg,” Feren said to him as they walked up a slope to the main town.

    “Not in the head?” Bard grumbled.

    “You’ll die more slowly if I shoot you in the leg first,” said Feren with a cruel grin.

    Bard supressed a shudder. He wouldn’t dare risk an escape much less sacrifice his life, leg, or dignity to do so. And besides, he was far too involved now. He was safest with the pirates, and their quest was certainly interesting him enough to stick around.

    Bree was a small country. The pirates and Bard lingered about the harbour town of Brandywine where there were market stalls and shops. Feren kept a close eye on Bard at all times while they bought rope, rum, and filled the waterskins at a well. The others all split up to buy food and other things like soap, brushes, clean cloths, new dice, and various trinkets that interested them. Bard saw a nice shirt he might have bought, but he had no money and didn’t have the courage to ask for any. He tailed Feren with a sullen expression, acting as his personal slave by carrying everything they purchased.

    “Will we stay at the inn tonight?” he asked, jostling the numerous packages and items in his arms.

    “Don’t count on it, kid,” Feren said.

    Bard sighed and followed Feren to a smithy. There, they found Nimrodel, who was dumping some swords and daggers onto the counter of a very mean-looking blacksmith. He glowered at her.

    “I don’t deal with pirates,” he growled, shooting a furious look at Feren and Bard as they entered.

    Nimrodel pushed her curly hair out of her face and said, “Oh, Feren, I’m glad you’re here. Can you persuade the man?”

    Without a word, Feren pulled a long-barrelled pistol out of his belt and pointed it at the blacksmith’s head. He started, but did not look to be in the mood to change his mind, threatened with a gun or not.

    “It’s bad for business,” he said in a reasonable manner.

    “So is dying,” said Feren flatly.

    The blacksmith swallowed, eyeing the pistol with a flicker of dread. He sighed and said, “I’ll sharpen them for double the price.”

    With one smooth motion, Nimrodel swept the weapons from the counter and scowled at the blacksmith. She rolled her eyes to Feren and he put his pistol away, baring his teeth slightly.

    They didn’t leave empty handed, however. Nimrodel paused at a row of daggers and pistols along the back wall and selected a few, adding them to the pile in her arms.

    “For my trouble,” she said, before leading the group out of the shop.

    “You shouldn’t steal,” Bard said as they made their way back down the street.

    “He was going to steal from me!” Nimrodel shrilled. “Double the price, ha! I should have run him through.”

    She inspected one of the pistols she had taken. It was finely made with a silver barrel and gold engravings in the hilt. It was probably very expensive. She caught Bard looking at it with an admiration he couldn’t resist.

    “Here,” she said, handing it to him.

    “Don’t give him a weapon!” Feren cried.

    “It’s not loaded, you idiot,” Nimrodel said as Bard took the weapon, stunned. “If you choose our side, you can have some bullets for it.”

    Feren did not approve, but let Bard belt the pistol. At least today wasn’t going to be a total loss for him, he thought.

    They met up with Thranduil and Glorfindel in a pawn shop. Glorfindel was experimentally putting various instruments and tools to the stump where his right hand used to be and asking for Thranduil’s opinion. He was holding a hook to it when Feren, Nimrodel and Bard entered.

    “How much would it cost to get this fitted?”

    The woman at the counter gave Glorfindel a horrified expression and walked away.

    “Where did you get these?” Thranduil said to Nimrodel, picking up one of her new daggers.

    “Blacksmith refused to serve me, so I served myself,” she said casually.

    Thranduil rolled his eyes and they fell on the pistol at Bard’s belt. He inhaled for a moment, as if to speak, but decided against it and ushered everyone back outside.  

    “Take everything back to the ship and meet me in the tavern,” he said.

    “Are we staying the night here?” said Feren, surprised.

    “No, I just really want a drink that hasn’t fermented more than required,” Thranduil said bitterly, and he waved them back to the ship.

    Glorfindel joined the other three in returning to the _Eryn Lasgalen_. They all dumped their purchases below deck and, as they made to leave, Lethuin and Meludir climbed on board with three pigs and a goat on leads.

    “Look!” said Meludir. “Dinner!”

    “Oh, how sweet,” said Nimrodel, leaning down to scratch behind the goat’s ear. “Put them somewhere dry, won’t you?”

    Meludir nodded and dragged the animals down to the hold. When he returned, an argument broke out.

    “I’ve been keeping watch all day! I’m not minding the ship while you lot drink!”

    “I only have one hand!”

    “I’ve seen you knock a man out with that stump, Glorfindel!”

    “Make Nimrodel stay!”

    “We can’t let a woman mind the ship!”

    “Why not? I can defend myself just fine, thank you!”

    “You want to stay, then?”

    “No!”

    “I’ll stay.”

    Six heads swivelled around to look at Bard. He took a step back warily, quite disturbed.

    “We can’t let _you_ stay,” said Feren, shaking his head. “I’ll do it.”

    With nods of appreciation, the others all clapped Feren on the shoulder and left the ship. The sun was beginning to set and the orange dots of street lanterns were lit, reflected against the wet docks. Bard looked back to the sunset, and then noticed they were short one other person.

    “Where’s Lethuin?” he asked no one in particular.

     A snigger fell across the group. Next to Bard, Meludir was grinning.

    “What?”

    “He stayed behind,” he said.

    “Why? If Feren –”

    Bard was interrupted by another tremor of laughter. Did that mean what he thought it meant? He was going to ask, but Galion struck up a new conversation and Bard was left to his assumptions.

    The tavern was mercifully quiet, which Bard figured was due to the remote location of the town. Some men were arguing, but most were drinking and flirting with women. The acrid smell of sweat and ale lingered in the thick of it. Thranduil was already inside, speaking to a pretty barmaid who looked a little flustered by him. She pushed back her dark hair at intervals and batted her eyelashes flirtatiously. Thranduil seemed quite unaffected by her actions and was asking a lot of questions.

    When the others came over, she straightened up and fell quiet.

    “Thank you,” said Thranduil. “Can we get a round of pints, please?”

    She nodded and set to filling large tankards with ale. Thranduil took his crew to a table in the far corner of the tavern.

    “I’ve changed my mind about our length of visit,” he said as they all sat down around a table, bumping elbows with one another.

    “Why?” said Glorfindel, sidling up next to the Captain.

    Thranduil’s eyes raked over Bard for a second, as if wary to speak in front of him. “There’s someone in Hobbiton I want to see,” he explained shortly.

    “Hobbiton? Isn’t that where –?” Nimrodel started to say.

    “Yes,” Thranduil cut in. “He’s withholding valuable information. We sail at first light tomorrow.”

    The barmaid came around with their drinks at this, setting them all down from a tray.

    “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, more to Thranduil than to anyone else.

    Nimrodel stifled a giggle when she left. Thranduil smirked, lifting the tankard up to his mouth.

    “What shall we drink to?” Meludir suddenly piped up.

    Silence fell across the table, all heads turned to Thranduil. He gave a noncommittal shrug and his face disappeared behind his tankard. Everyone followed suite, Bard included. He wasn’t particularly in the mood for drinking, but he was thirsty, and one tankard couldn’t hurt.

    His feelings about this were not shared, however. A second round was requested, and then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and very soon Bard was surrounded by noisy, drunk pirates retelling tales of their adventures and swordfights with the Navy. Bard caught snippets of this and that, but nothing that was exciting enough for him to tune in entirely. He settled himself to simply watch, still nursing his second drink and not enjoying himself at all.

    Thranduil had his arm slung around Glorfindel and they were breathless and wheezing at some private joke. Bard absently wondered if they were like Lethuin and Feren. His stomach twisted unpleasantly.

     Meludir was sitting on Nimrodel’s lap while Galion told them a thrilling tale about the time he nearly got dragged below the depths of the sea by a mermaid.

    “Mermaids aren’t real, Galion. You might as well say that dragons live in the mountains,” hiccupped Nimrodel, wagging a finger at him disapprovingly.

    “They are real!” Galion insisted, smacking his tankard down and causing Nimrodel and Meludir to jump in their seat. “And they’re huge and cruel and care for nothing but tearing the flesh from your bones! Do you want to see my scar?”

    He stood up and started to untie his trousers, making the other two shriek in protest. Bard laughed.

    At that moment, a body was thrown across the room. It collided with the wall close by their table and slumped down to the floor, groaning dully. A fight had broken out. Thranduil took this as a sign to leave, as it was coming their way.

    Tripping and chuckling, Thranduil and his crew shuffled their way back through the tavern.

    “Hey, you haven’t paid!” a man at the bar shouted at their backs.

    Thranduil backtracked, hiccupping, and pulled out a bag of money to pay the man. His fingers were clumsy at the drawstring and the barman became impatient. Bard sighed and took the bag. He pulled it open and gave the man some money for the drinks.

    Thranduil took a moment to register what had happened. He blinked at Bard, smiled very toothily, and then went outside. Shaking his head, Bard hurried after them, narrowly missing being hit by a flying tankard.

    The night was cool and dark. Bard felt a bit like a shepherd, running here and there to stop the pirates from colliding into one thing or another and making sure they didn’t stray too far from the group. Nimrodel nearly fell off the docks as they approached the ship and Bard had to grab her around the waist to save her.

    Getting them up the plank was another challenge all on its own, as they kept peering off the edge and cooing at things that weren’t important. Bard tried calling up to Lethuin and Feren, but it seemed they were still otherwise engaged and he was forced to help the others aboard alone. Then he hauled up the plank with a great deal of effort and watched as Nimrodel, Galion, Glorfindel and Meludir all tottered down the steps to the gun deck, still laughing and bellowing to each other. Thranduil walked in a remarkably straight line towards his cabin, but Bard could hear him whispering to himself and gesturing.

    Bard sighed. He thought the pirates were very careless to be quite so inebriated. If he was anyone else, he could easily kill them all in their sleep and sail away in a longboat. But Bard wasn’t anyone else. He was a decent man, he thought. He retrieved a waterskin, some fresh fruit and bread, and a cutlass from the hold and he settled himself at the table on the quarterdeck to take the night watch, feeling very tired, but not to such an extent as to join the snoring pirates below deck.

    He was only out there for an hour or two when he heard footsteps beneath him. Then, the door to Thranduil’s cabin opened and he appeared at the stairs, looking up at Bard with a very severe expression. It seemed he had finally begun to sober up.

    “Where’s my money?” he demanded furiously.

    “I left it at your door,” said Bard.

    Thranduil glanced at the door and, evidently seeing the purse on the deck, said instead, “Who gave you that sword?”

    “I did. I can’t very well take watch unarmed, can I?”

    Thranduil huffed, climbing the stairs to the quarterdeck. He wasn’t wearing shoes and, as he approached, Bard noticed the dark circles under his eyes and the way his hair seemed to frizzle in his temper.

    He looked as though he wanted to keep yelling, but there was nothing for him to yell at Bard for.

    “Why – why are you doing this?” he said in resignation.

    Bard smirked. “I’m not going to let a bunch of vulnerable pirates be subjected to petty thievery. What do you take me for?” He said it very cockily, finally glad to have Thranduil at a disadvantage.

    Thranduil dragged a second chair over to Bard and sat down heavily, throwing him a critical look. Bard chuckled, leaning back comfortably in his own seat. How pleasant it was to not be grumbled at or ignored.

    Thranduil stretched out his long body in the chair, tilting his head against the back and staring up at the sky. There were no stars. Clouds covered the inky blackness above them. 

    “You can go back to bed, if you like,” Bard motioned.

    “I can’t sleep,” Thranduil said.

    They were quiet for a moment, and then Bard said, “Lethuin and Feren…”

    He didn’t want to out them to their Captain, but he figured Thranduil knew, considering how close he was with his crew.

    A smile spread across his face. “You think it strange,” he said.

    “No!” said Bard quickly, but not entirely truthfully. He did think it was a little odd. “I just wondered…”

    Thranduil sat up, studying Bard in the way that he did. “They aren’t the only ones,” he said.

    Bard felt his heart sink, already knowing what Thranduil was going to say about himself and Glorfindel. Bard couldn't explain why this upset him, however. True, Thranduil was handsome and domineering in the sort of way that made Bard feel as flustered as that barmaid, but he had never considered… had never wanted to…

    “Glorfindel lost more than a hand during our ambush at Erebor,” Thranduil went on, looking away from Bard.

    Bard’s heart went from his stomach to his throat in one twisting movement. He readjusted his mentality. “And you?”

    Thranduil smiled wryly. “Just everything I had worked for,” he said.

    Bard hesitated at this, unsure if he was permitted to question Thranduil further. It had been made very clear to him that he wasn’t going to be told by anyone on board what had happened at Erebor or what Thranduil was looking for, but Bard’s intrigue grew with every day that passed. It would be a week or more before he was told. It was hardly fair on him to sail under the command of a pirate who refused to say where they were going and what they were looking for.

    “If you’re a pirate, why are you so set on finding this treasure? I’ve never known a pirate to go to such an effort to find some gold. And, given your history…” Bard said this very quickly, and then faltered, his throat closing up.

    “You ask so many questions,” Thranduil murmured. He took one of Bard’s apples from the table and pulled out a knife to cut it into slices. “It’s far more complicated than you imagine.”

    “Is that why you think I won’t believe you?” Bard said.

    “It’s not really something you can understand by the spoken word. Our purpose – this ship’s purpose – isn’t just a simple voyage. It’s a promise, Bard, to ourselves, and to those we are loyal to.”

    “Who are you loyal to, if not the King?”

    Thranduil didn’t reply to this, but Bard noticed the way his hand went to his chest, as if playing with a pendant there. Bard decided not to press the matter for once. He was tired, and probably wouldn’t be able to process anything Thranduil said anyway, much less believe it. Bard resigned himself to more silence, broken only by the soft crunch of Thranduil eating the apple. When he was finished, he cocked his arm and launched the core into the water with a small splash.

    “Do you prefer a life of piracy to that of royalty?” Bard wondered.

    Thranduil barked a laugh. “Do you think I would still be on a ship if I didn’t?”

    “I guess the pirate’s life does offer that little bit more freedom,” said Bard sagely.

    Thranduil cast his eyes across the water, which glimmered gently in the light of the lanterns on the docks.

    “I’d sail for the rest of my life if I could,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t born to stay in one place.”

    Bard nodded. “I don’t know what I would have done if I didn’t become a sailor. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

    “Are you sorry to have ended up here?” Thranduil asked.

    Bard knew at once that this had not meant to be said out loud. There was a long pause and he smiled briefly, looking down at his hands, and then across the ship. He had sailed with the pirates for a month now, though it did not feel like quite that long. He couldn’t deny he liked it better than sailing with the Navy.

    “No, I’m not sorry,” he finally said.

    He turned to see Thranduil’s reaction, and it wasn’t what he was expecting at all. What ought to have been a smug expression was instead one of surprise. In fact, Thranduil looked utterly speechless.

    Then, Bard could taste apples. He felt soft hands framing his face. A calm wind blew silver hair over his shoulder and there was silence, his heart beating so fast he thought it was going to crack his chest open.

    For a long moment, Bard was motionless with shock, unsure of what to do. Did he dare kiss back? Did he dare give in to that kind of temptation? Thranduil was drawing away now, his blue eyes horrified at what he had done. Bard had to act now, or else it would be too late.

    Their lips had barely parted before he crushed them together again. He felt Thranduil hesitate, and then his fingers found their way to Bard’s neck and shoulders, his kisses becoming deep and eager. It felt like the ocean was trying to drag Bard under and drown him, and he was glad for it.

    They did not break apart for a very long time. Bard was convinced that if they did, something bad would happen, while this was a good thing, and ought to keep on happening instead. His hands wandered. Thranduil’s skin was impossibly supple and Bard’s hands were rough, but he couldn’t help himself; he had to touch, he had to kiss, he had to imprint every litany of indiscretion and uncertainty of the past month into Thranduil’s skin.

    And it was over after that. Thranduil eyes were shining in the lamplight and Bard’s fingers were trembling. He bit his lip – soft and tasting of apples – and he did not look at Thranduil. He couldn't. He concentrated on slowing his heartbeat, taking steady breaths. From the corner of his eye, he saw Thranduil’s hand reach out for him, as if to offer comfort, but it drew back and he stood up, vanishing down the stairs without another word. Bard heard the cabin door close and then he swore. That had been reckless.

    A pirate was a pirate, he tried to remind himself. It didn’t matter how good they were at kissing.


	5. Ivory and Steel

Hobbiton was even further west, so further west they sailed the next morning. Bard did not breathe a word to anyone about what had happened on the quarterdeck between him and Thranduil, and it seemed the Captain was not going to say anything either. This was an easy arrangement, but it did make what little conversation Bard and Thranduil had very awkward and tense. And each time Thranduil looked at Bard his expression seemed almost hurt.

    Bard tried not to dwell on it. He thought perhaps it might have been a trick to get him on Thranduil’s side once and for all. He didn’t really believe this, of course, but he kept his wits about him. He wasn’t going to let a pirate get the better of him.

    The course to Hobbiton was smooth and uneventful. The crew – most of whom were ill from drink – lay on the deck not speaking to anyone for fear they would be sick with the effort. Feren and Lethuin were quite happy to keep Bard preoccupied with sparring, however. He was starting to get very good. He had even disarmed Feren once or twice, which had him very spiteful. Lethuin laughed at Feren, poking him every time he strayed too close. Bard noticed now how friendly they were to one another; it was a wonder he had not seen it before.

    They arrived at nightfall. Bard expected Thranduil to wait until the next day to make port, but he sailed the _Eryn Lasgalen_ into the docks and paid the man there, who was very annoyed at someone arriving so late in the day. 

    Before leaving the ship, Thranduil turned to his crew. “Only Glorfindel is joining me. The rest of you are to stay behind. We won’t be long,” he said. “Oh, and Bard, you can come as well.”

    Bard clenched his teeth and ignored the curious looks he received for this attention. He went down to the docks with Thranduil and Glorfindel and they walked into town.

    It was very quiet and dark. As they passed the town centre, Bard noticed the houses were all built in and around the hilly landscape. Despite the interesting designs of the balconies and windows, they all looked exactly the same and he quickly lost track of which direction the ship was anchored. But he had no reason to worry as Thranduil knew where he was going. He turned this way and that way, climbing steadily up the hills until they reached a house with a large round door, its golden handle in its centre.

    He knocked.

    It was answered after some time by a tall man in a blue waistcoat with curling, sandy hair. He stood on the threshold, staring at his visitors.

    “Hello, Bilbo,” said Thranduil in a falsely enthusiastic tone.

    The man let out a shriek, and slammed the door shut. Glorfindel laughed.

    “He hasn’t changed.”

    Thranduil turned the knob of the door and threw his weight against it, but it had been locked.

    “Glorfindel, if you could,” he asked, stepping aside.

    Glorfindel promptly drew his pistol and aimed it to the left side of the door, where a normal handle should be. With a deafening _bang_ he shot out the lock that was there. Thranduil pushed the door open.

    “That’s no way to treat your guests,” he called out into an empty, lavishly decorated hall. “Nor old friends, come to that.”

    The man – Bilbo – came barging into the entrance hall, brandishing a sword.

    “You’ve no right to be here!” he cried, pointing it at Thranduil.

    “Couldn’t put on some tea, could you?” asked Glorfindel casually, walking past Bilbo into a little kitchen and looking around.

    He took down a kettle, filled it with water, and set it atop a fire that crackled in the grate. He then sat down comfortably at a scrubbed wooden table. Thranduil followed, pushing Bilbo’s sword to the side with two long fingers. Bard, not really sure what he was doing here, went as well, giving Bilbo an apologetic look before taking the seat beside Thranduil.

    Bilbo’s face was red with anger as he glared at the three intruders in his kitchen. He was still clutching the sword, though clearly had no intention of actually using it. It looked military-made. Bard wondered what position he held. Or had once held.

    “Get out!” he stormed after a few minutes of glowering. "I won't have pirates, criminals or betrayers sullying my home. And you happen to fit all three of those categories, Thranduil!"

    Thranduil smiled very widely, showing off his white teeth in a threatening sort of way. Bilbo raged silently at him.

    The kettle started to whistle, breaking the stillness. Glorfindel, delighted by the idea of tea, jumped to his feet to retrieve it. He found some cups and poured tea for everyone. Thranduil and Bilbo eyed each other all the while and Bard gazed around the little kitchen, twiddling his thumbs and quietly looking forward to having tea for the first time in months.

    “You have something of mine,” Thranduil finally said when Glorfindel returned to his seat.

    “What, my entire chest of correspondence wasn’t enough?” Bilbo rumbled.

    “No."

    “I have nothing else! Everything to do with those infernal gems was in that chest.”

    Bard perked up at this. Gems! What a specific thing for pirates to search for. Bard had the feeling he understood far less than he realised about these people. Whatever these gems were, they had to be very important.

    “Their location wasn’t given. Surely you would have been told,” Thranduil said, taking a sip of tea.

    Bard was certain Bilbo was going to start shouting again, but he instead slumped into the remaining chair and sighed very heavily. “I haven’t been told squat. The only person who knows where those gems are is the King, and Thorin Oakenshield.”

    “Oh yes, I do believe I have him to thank for their inconvenient relocation,” Thranduil said tartly.

    “On the King’s orders, mind you. I wouldn’t go blaming people who don’t know any better, least of all Oakenshield. It’s just business to him, really. But yes, he knows exactly where they are. Not that it's any help to you.” Bilbo opened a jar of biscuits on the table, setting them out and taking his own cup of tea. “And I’m no help either, so if you would kindly get out of my house and leave some coin for the reimbursement of my door…”

    “Don’t lie to me, Bilbo,” Thranduil interrupted. “I’ve read your letters to the King extensively. You know where the gems are.”

    Bilbo puffed out his chest indignantly as though the idea of Thranduil reading his letters was the utmost insult to his privacy. But he composed himself, sighing again.

    “I don’t know the exact location. They’re north, though the point of a compass will do you no good,” he said.

    Thranduil paled at this. “North?” 

    Glorfindel spluttered into his tea. “Please tell me the rumours of the north aren’t true,” he said.

    To answer this, Bilbo offered the group a very meaningful look and stood up. He crossed the kitchen to an adjoining room and returned with something in his hands. He set it on the table.

    “You have my sympathies,” was all he said.

    Glorfindel and Thranduil stared at the object. At first, Bard couldn’t quite make out what it was supposed to be. It was just over a foot long, white, and slightly curved from a wide base to a sharp tip, almost like a horn, almost like…

    “Is that a tooth?” he said, breaking the tension.

    “A souvenir,” said Bilbo with a hint of disgust. “You can keep it. Maybe you can trade it for your gems. I don’t think sea serpents grow their teeth back.”

    Thranduil blanched even more. Bard thought he was going to faint. He took the tooth in his hands, running shaking fingers along its ivory surface. He looked up at Bilbo.

    “Is this a trick? Do you really expect me to believe that my gems are being guarded by a monster? What is this made of? Elephant tusk? Sea serpents aren’t real!”

    “Real as you or me, my friend,” said Bilbo. “Read my letters again. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

    Thranduil got to his feet very quickly, Glorfindel and Bard automatically doing the same as if ordered. Thranduil looked livid, but also very frightened. He towered over Bilbo and then said, “Pack a bag, Master Baggins. Welcome to the crew.”

    And it was with a great deal of fuss and swearing that Bilbo was removed from his home. Thranduil ended up packing a bag for him and Glorfindel shoved him forcefully out the door after finishing everyone’s tea and stuffing several biscuits in his mouth and pockets. Bard was feeling very ill about all this. What did Thranduil mean by a sea serpent? Such things didn’t exist. Like mermaids, as Nimrodel had said to Galion...

    They dragged Bilbo practically kicking and screaming back to the ship. He was thrown into the bewildered arms of Feren and instructed he be put in the brig to cool off for the night. Thranduil told the crew to set sail, and then disappeared into his cabin with Glorfindel. Everyone else rounded on Bard, demanding to know what had happened and why there was an eighth person in their company.

    Bard told them everything, though lacked the finer details that they picked up immediately, such as what gems Thranduil had mentioned, and Bilbo’s letters. But before Bard could ask for clarification on these things, Nimrodel gasped, Galion swore, and Lethuin instinctively reached for Feren’s arm.

    “A sea serpent? Are you sure?” Nimrodel whispered.

    “Yeah,” said Bard uneasily. “But, he can’t be telling the truth. Sea serpents aren’t real.”

    The crew exchanged nervous glances.

    “For our sake, I hope not,” Galion said.

 

    Bilbo was permitted on deck the next morning. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ was moving east at last, headed for Imladris.

    Bard could tell Bilbo wasn’t made for life at sea. He did very little walking and very little talking and he was quite green in complexion. While Bard and the pirates busied themselves with duties and orders, Bilbo rooted himself to the shade of the forecastle and did not acknowledge anyone.

    The animals were let out of the hold as well. They scurried about the ship, getting in everyone’s way and making noises. Nimrodel had grown fond of the goat. She spoke to it like it understood her and she ended up naming it Barnacle.

    “What the hell kind of name is that?” said Lethuin.

    “A good one!”

    “What’s the point of naming an animal we’re just going to eat later?” said Meludir.

    Nimrodel frowned. “He’s sweet. He deserves the dignity of having a name,” she said.

    Meludir and Lethuin rolled their eyes and returned to their card game. Bard was watching, trying to concentrate and understand the rules. It was difficult to find adequate distraction, and such a thing was becoming a necessity to everyone on board. An actual sea serpent guarding the gems plagued their minds. Bard still wasn’t convinced such a thing existed. Sea serpents and mermaids were just stories told to frighten children away from piracy.

    If it were possible, Thranduil was spending even more time confined to his cabin. All thought of the kiss he and Bard had shared was lost; the potential fatality of the quest was now marginally more important. This proved to be in Bard’s favour. Admitting that he liked kissing Thranduil was not on his list of wants or priorities, so it was easier just to not dwell on it at all.

    His relief was short-lived, however. As they continued east to Imladris, passing Bree and the South Downs and streaming on to the Last Bridge, Thranduil began to join his crew on deck again. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, and Bard had reason to believe this was true. His hair hung limp in a knot at his neck and he was more irritable than ever. Even still, Bard was hard-pressed to stop himself from staring at Thranduil’s lips or his neck, or smiling whenever he smiled.

    Bard was sparring with Feren when Thranduil emerged from his cabin again. It had rained the previous night and the deck was slippery with water as the morning had brought no sunshine, but rolling clouds and wind.

    Bard was eager for the practice on a hazardous surface. Feren was his favourite competitor and always agreed to spar. Bard also liked to fight Nimrodel as she had a penchant for using daggers that he had to avoid. He had a few lacerations at his hips and hands from the times he had failed to do so.

    Feren’s blows were much more ferocious now that he was confident Bard could parry them. The succession of their swords clashing grew in number as it took longer for one of the men to disarm the other. Lethuin had started a tally between them. Feren was winning, but not by much.

    Their streaks of parries and attacks were interrupted by Thranduil. He waited for Feren to block one of Bard’s attacks, and then tapped him on the shoulder, as if asking to cut in as a dance partner.

    Those watching – Lethuin, Meludir, Glorfindel and Nimrodel – all hummed with laughter. Bard stayed his sword, catching his breath as Thranduil unsheathed his own. Up close, it was even more magnificent. Bard saw white jewels encrusted into the golden hilt. Thranduil took off his hat, handed it to Feren, and stood ready for an attack. Bard’s heart was catapulting in his chest, but not from exertion. He could see the flicker of a smile playing on Thranduil’s lips.

    Bard steeled himself, shaking off his nerves. He had never seen Thranduil fight before, so he was at a disadvantage, but quite determined nonetheless.

    He delivered the first blow. Thranduil parried. Bard swung again, and then waited for him to make a move. But Thranduil didn’t. Bard was forced to draw back and strike again. Blocked. And blocked again. Thranduil refused to attack – why?

    _He’s toying with me_ , Bard realised with a thud of anger.

    He struck, and Thranduil’s sword flew up to meet Bard’s once more. Bard let out a low growl and then began to attack without hesitation, releasing his frustration into every thrust and blow of his sword. Thranduil’s smile grew wider and wider with every parry.

    Then, without warning, he assailed Bard with an attack. His head might have been cut off had he not flung up his sword just in time. He brought up the flat edge to rest on his palm as Thranduil put all the pressure he could muster onto the steel. Then, he fell back and attacked again. Bard could not keep up. Thranduil was good and he was strong and Bard was barely able to defend himself. His arms shook and his knees buckled, but he refused to submit to Thranduil’s assault.

    The others were jeering and shouting, obviously having known Bard’s fate at Thranduil’s sword. He wasn’t going to last much longer, but there was no way for him to disarm Thranduil; his hits were too powerful and Bard could concentrate only on blocking them.

    He hated himself for it, but Bard eventually gave up. He let his cutlass fly from his hand and he stood panting as the tip of Thranduil’s nearly nicked his chin. Thranduil smirked, but he too looked quite exhausted. He sheathed his sword and went to the quarterdeck.

    Bard turned to the other pirates. To his surprise, they were exchanging gold amongst themselves.

    “We made some quick bets,” Glorfindel explained upon seeing Bard’s puzzled expression. He took some gold from Nimrodel with a smug grin.

    “I thought it was pretty obvious I would lose,” Bard said breathlessly.

    “We didn’t bet whether you’d win or lose, but rather how long you would last,” said Nimrodel. “Two more minutes, little rat, two more minutes was all I needed from you! I was going to buy new boots with that money. But never mind, perhaps I’ll win the other bet.”

    “What other bet?” asked Bard.

    Four wide grins spread across four arrogant faces.

    “What?” he pressed.

    They did not answer. Bard had a bad feeling it too had something to do with him and Thranduil. He huffed resentfully and took a bottle of water from the table, downing it almost in one.

    That night after dinner, Bard was called into the Captain’s cabin. Stepping firmly on his timidity, he obeyed, ignoring the smirks and titters from the crew around the fire.

    The second door of the cabin that was usually closed was open and Bard could see into a bedroom where an ornately carved four poster bed sat by the long row of windows at the back of the ship. Candles flickered all around the cabin, casting a warm glow. Thranduil was standing at the table, Bilbo’s chest sitting in front of him with the long tooth that made Bard’s skin crawl.

    “Can I still count on your help, Bard?” Thranduil said, clasping his hands behind his back.

    Bard offered him a disdainful glare. “I really don’t see what’s in it for me if I help you,” he said savagely. “There’s nothing for me to gain. It’s very clear that you’ve no interest in having me killed.”

    Bard was, of course, referring to their kiss, which had he had come to realise explained a lot about Thranduil’s behaviour towards him, if it hadn't been a dirty trick to encourage him to go on account.

    Thranduil’s face fell sadly. Bard decided doggedly not to care, though his heart seized uncomfortably.

    “Very well," Thranduil said. “When we arrive at Imladris, you may leave.”

    Bard hitched his breath unexpectedly. He didn’t have to go with these pirates on their ludicrous quest? He was hardy able to process the thought. Weeks of hard work and name-calling and raucous bunkmates and he could at last leave it behind.

    And yet… where would he go? He was miles from home with no money and no connections. Even if he made it back to Laketown, he wouldn’t be able to resume his post as a sailor, much less work his way up to a higher rank. If Commodore Minyatur was indeed meeting Thranduil in Imladris, he was no longer serving the King, which meant Bard could be targeted as an ally and condemned. That was, however, the worst-case scenario. Bard had a few remaining prospects in Greenwood, yet he found that none of them sought to tempt him.

    “Forgive me,” he said quickly, before he could change his mind. “I misspoke. I do not wish to leave.”

    There was a pause. Thranduil eyed Bard suspiciously.

    “I have nowhere else to go.”

    “Imladris offers much opportunity for sailors such as yourself,” Thranduil said absently, riffling through some loose papers and letters. “I would not blame you for choosing to go.”

    Bard bit back a smirk and approached the table, leaning towards Thranduil. 

    “But you want me to stay,” he said quietly. It was a long shot, but he wanted to know if his assumptions had been correct. Had that kiss meant more than Thranduil was willing to admit? His leniency regarding Bard's indecision indicated as such.

    Thranduil froze, his grip tightening around the papers in his hand and causing them to crumple. His eyes met Bard’s for a second, and then he straightened up, looking impassive once more.

    “I will respect the choice you make,” he said stiffly.

    Bard took this as a confirmation for his assumptions. He smiled in spite of himself. “I don’t really think it’s fair that you’re asking me to stay without telling me your story,” he said.

    “If you wish to stay, Elrond will be able to tell you,” Thranduil said, finally returning the papers to the chest.

    “Why can’t you tell me?” Bard said.

    Thranduil look almost frightened by this notion. For a long time, he didn’t speak.

    “It is not something I am able to recall with ease. You are dismissed.”

    Taken aback, Bard left the cabin, his heart still doing funny things in his chest. Had he touched a nerve? Thranduil suddenly did not seem the cold-hearted criminal Bard believed him to be. Why was he so reluctant to reiterate the story behind his quest? What was so bad that he couldn’t tell Bard?

    He cast his attention to the crew, who were playing Liar’s Dice and shouting loudly over rum and wine. Did they share Thranduil’s feelings about their past? Were they also disinclined to tell the tale?

    Bard decided not to worry about it for now. He had made a temporary choice, and this Elrond person would tell him the curious story of Thranduil and the pirates. Only, Bard wondered if he would still want to stay once he knew. It was all he had ever really asked for – to understand why and how these people had become pirates – and yet now that the answer drew so near, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to hear it anymore. Sea serpents and secrets and ivory teeth; this didn’t exactly look like the type of voyage that would send Bard home with pay at its end.


	6. The Last Homely House

Mountains loomed out of the early morning mist a week later. Bard, shivering and yawning, climbed out of the gun deck to get breakfast. He had never gotten his jacket back, and so kept himself wrapped in his blanket while bread, fruit and last night’s salty pork were passed around. Bilbo was sitting very far away from the pirates, not eating anything. Bard took seconds and brought them over to him, feeling almost as though it was his turn to break in the new recruit, much like Nimrodel had done with him.

    “It’s not easy to sail on an empty stomach,” he said.

    “I hate sailing,” Bilbo grumbled, taking the food and hot water. He didn’t eat, but studied Bard for a moment. “You’re not a pirate.”

    Bard snorted. “How can you tell?”

    “Well, for starters, you’re wearing Navy breaches. But how did you end up here?”

    “Your chest got me here, actually,” said Bard, squashing his pork between two pieces of bread. “I tried to take it back and Captain Thranduil pulled me on board.”

    Bilbo gave a _‘hmph’_ of disapproval at the mention of his chest. He sipped his water tersely.

    “How come you’re involved? You’re not a pirate either, and you’re not with the King, so where do you and your letters fit in to all this? And how come Thranduil says they belong to him?” Bard asked conversationally.

    Bilbo gave him a curious look, but said, “For technicality’s sake, I work for Thorin Oakenshield, but at the time I was something of an impartial witness. I oversaw the movement of the gems from Erebor to where they are now.”

    “So you _do_ know where they are?” said Bard.

    “I _oversaw_ their relocation. I didn’t actually go there myself,” Bilbo said.

    “And your letters?”

    “A few of the maps and other documents belong to your Captain, but most of them are my correspondence to King Oropher on behalf of Mister Oakenshield. He doesn’t like to deal with matters personally, and he entrusted me with the key to the gems, so it was my duty to inform the King of what he needed to know.”

    “That sounds unnecessarily complicated,” said Bard.

    Bilbo rolled his eyes. “If you knew Thorin – er, Mister Oakenshield – then you’d understand. But it was also upon request that it was organised this way; to safeguard the location of the gems from Thranduil. After his attack on Erebor, King Oropher ordered the gems to be removed in such a fashion that it would be hard, if not impossible to find them again. His plan has mostly worked. Even with my chest, Thranduil isn’t going to have much luck finding them.”

    “I see. What’s Erebor?” Bard pondered. He was trying to narrow down his questions, but it was proving difficult as he had so many and Bilbo was actually willing to answer them.

    “It’s – well – it’s like a bank, I suppose, but for riches and treasures far beyond that of silver and gold,” said Bilbo.

    “Have you been there?”

    “Yes,” he said curtly. Then, he changed the subject. “Where are we going?”

    “Imladris,” said Bard automatically.

    “What? I don’t know where that is,” said Bilbo irritably.

    “Oh! Rivendell.” Bard couldn’t remember when he had stopped calling it that.

    Bilbo’s mouth opened and then closed again in comprehension. It seemed he was as new to this as Bard had been when he first came aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_. It humoured him to be among the pirates in Bilbo’s perspective. Yet, despite this, Bard still knew less than everyone else, and this annoyed him.

    But he didn’t have much longer to wait until he found out the truth. The mountains they were approaching held within them the largest free pirate port in Middle Earth and The Last Homely House. Bard was enthusiastic to finally see it; to finally arrive where they should have been weeks ago.

    Thranduil seemed eager to make port as well. He was steering the ship and his expression was very intense, as though he was equal parts excited, nervous, and resolute.

    But his behaviour was nothing compared to that of the other pirates. They were all of them talking about old friends – pirates they had sailed with during the quest to Erebor – and of seeing them again. Only Meludir was excluded among them, having never known the others as his arrival had been after parting ways. But he listened with keen ears and asked questions about certain people.

    “Will there be more people closer to my age?” he said.

    “Haldir is young, and he has two little brothers who are twenty now, so they might join us this time,” said Galion. “Everyone else is closer to the Captain’s age, or older.”

    Bard still didn’t know how old Thranduil was. He seemed almost timeless in appearance, but he surely couldn’t be older than thirty…

    “He’s six-and-twenty,” said Nimrodel when Bard asked.

    Before he could resist it, Bard felt the relief of not having such a vast age gap with Thranduil. Then he scolded himself silently for thinking it. It was doing him no good to consider Thranduil that way. The kiss was getting to his head.

    “Land ahoy!”

    The _Eryn Lasgalen_ rounded the side of the mountains and Bard looked across the ship to see an island stretched out before them. It was flanked by dark mountains, but blue water and white sand greeted them in the afternoon sun. Nestled at the base of the rock, Bard could make out a town beyond the harbour, windows of tall buildings blinking cheerily. It was nothing like he might have expected. It was a small city, glittering beside crystal waters.

    “That’s Imladris?” Bard said.

    He ran up the steps to Thranduil. The Captain leaned against the wheel, staring fondly ahead of him. He nodded.

    “It doesn’t look like a pirate port,” said Bard critically.

    “Looks can be deceiving,” replied Thranduil.

    Bard and the pirates prepared to make port. They furled the sails and tightened the rigging. Then, they slid into the docks and weighed anchor.

    Bard could almost feel the crew humming with exhilaration. They were all of them dressed in their fine garbs and Bard felt very dirty again. But he was amused by their uncharacteristic bliss. Glorfindel was bouncing up and down on his feet, his blue eyes sparkling, and Lethuin was talking animatedly to Meludir about someone called Celebrían. Bard suddenly realised that it had been nearly two years since the pirates last saw their friends. Two years was a lot to catch up on.

    “I ask you all to be on your best behaviour,” Thranduil commanded. “We are guests here, and shall honour our hosts.”

    Then, a mischievous smile spread across his face and he very nearly bounded off the ship. Everyone darted after him, Bilbo and Bard bringing up the rear with significantly duller expressions.

    “I hate pirates,” Bilbo muttered.

    Out of instinct, Bard was about to agree, but he stopped himself, realising he would be lying if he did.

    Imladris was indeed revealed to be dirtier than Bree or Hobbiton, but it was larger, so its unkemptness was in proportion. Bard had been correct in thinking it to be more of a city. The houses were high and many-windowed and horse-drawn carriages tugged down the roads. Bard couldn’t turn his head fast enough to see everything. There were shops on every corner and pretty girls giggling over tea. It was like being in Greenwood again, only Imladris was more open and there were no soldiers patrolling the streets.

    They were making for a tavern. A little way beyond it was a castle-like structure with wide windows, arches and low turrets. It looked as though part of it had been carved right out of the mountain.

    A sign hung over the tavern door; _The Many Meetings._

    The pirates filed inside. It was quiet for the time of day; a few patrons sat at benches and tables, clutching tankards and talking in whispers. Then, the calm was broken by a sudden scream. A woman had fled from the bar and bee-lined for the group that had entered. She flung herself into Thranduil’s arms and he spun her around, holding her tightly and grinning.

    There was a great deal of commotion when they broke apart. The woman, who was fair and blonde, was attempting to talk to everyone at once. She hugged them and shook hands and smothered everyone in kisses, particularly Glorfindel, who went completely red. She ignored Bard and Bilbo, which seemed reasonable given the circumstances.

    “Oh, I’m so happy you’re finally here! We were expecting you much earlier, and when Elros arrived without much news we feared the worst,” she said breathlessly.

    “We were pursued by the Navy, so we took a detour to Bree to evade them. Good thing, too, because we picked up Master Baggins here,” said Thranduil, indicating Bilbo with a careless gesture.

    The woman finally turned her attention on the two men she didn’t know. She acknowledged Bilbo, and her eyes lingered on Bard for a long time.

    “Elrond is at home. Everyone else is sort of scattered, but I can arrange them all around for dinner if you like,” she said to Thranduil.

    “That would be lovely.” He kissed her cheek.

    “Go! You need rest and a bath – my goodness you smell awful. Go, get out of my tavern! I’ll see you all later. Mithrellas will take over for me.”

    Thranduil bowed himself out, ushering everyone back outside. Bard became hyperaware of the way Thranduil’s hands found his arm, making his skin prickle.

    “We will have to leave our proper reunion until later,” Thranduil said. “I agree with Celebrían – we ought to wash and dress.”

    “I wonder who Mithrellas is,” Nimrodel said absently. “Oh, Thranduil! Isn’t that Tauriel?”

    Bard followed Nimrodel’s pointing finger to a girl standing in the street talking to a fruit merchant. At the sound of her name, she turned to face the company. Her expression was curious at first, but at the sight of Thranduil she let out a shriek and dropped everything she was holding, running over to him.

    She was tall, and her red hair was loose and so long it fluttered in the wind like a flag as she sprinted, unmindful of the mud that sprayed her skirts. With a light _thud_ she collided with Thranduil, like she was greeting a long-absent father. 

    She had tears in her eyes when they parted. She was young, but Bard didn’t believe she was much younger than himself. He might have mistaken her for a woman had it not been for the careless way she held herself, like a wild animal trapped in a bodice.

    The girl pressed many kisses to Thranduil’s face, standing on tip-toe to reach him.

    “I’ve miss you so much! Have you had many adventures? You must tell me everything!”

    “At dinner,” said Thranduil, offering his arm for her to take.

    The girl nodded and she and Thranduil led the group up a hill towards the large house at the base of the mountains. Thranduil retrieved her baskets from the ground and listened to her jabber away without taking a breath about everything that came to mind. She pointed out new structures here and there, and said hello to the few people they passed. Bard was quite amazed by her spirit. Even Nimrodel, who burned skirts before she wore them, was more ladylike than this girl.

    But Bard had learned to abandon all expectations of people – especially people who were or associated themselves with pirates – because in the end he found he could not judge another human being for their choices or way of being when he himself no longer held any merit among others. Bard had boarded a pirate ship and sailed beneath a pirate flag and he had kissed a pirate full on the mouth. He was in no position to tell a girl that she ought to be more of a lady.

    Up the slope and through a pair of wrought iron gates, the company of pirates and Bard and Bilbo all entered the grand house with the girl as their guide. She shuffled her feet on a mat and pushed open the front door without knocking, giving Bard the impression that she lived there. The entrance hall was white and beautifully decorated with chandeliers and paintings. Two flights of marble stairs crept to the left and the right, and ahead of them was another room that opened up into archways and a wide, sweeping courtyard of stone.

    “Elrond!” the girl called, her voice echoing through the house.

    “I see you’ve finally abandoned his title,” Thranduil mused.

    “He insisted,” said the girl. “He said if I called him ‘Lord’ one more time he’d send me to bed without supper.”

    Bard heard footsteps coming through from the courtyard, muffled slightly by what sounded like a fountain. Two boys entered the hall where the group had congregated. They were twins, in their mid-teens with dark hair and sharp cheekbones that gave them very mischievous demeanours. Their mouths fell open in unison when they saw who had arrived.

    “Elladan! Elrohir!”

    Bard expected Thranduil to embrace them like he had done with the girl, but it was Glorfindel who exclaimed and broke ranks. He almost tackled the boys to the ground in a hug.

    Bard was suddenly very overwhelmed by these newcomers. It was going to take a miracle for him to remember all these names. He already forgot what the girl was called.

    “Father! Father, Thranduil is here!” one of the boys shouted.

    Bard looked above him. The stairs in the entrance led up to the second floor, which could be seen through white wooden railing from where he stood. A door on the left opened and a man emerged. He was stately and eyed everyone below him like insects.

    He walked, disappearing behind a wall and then coming down the stairs in the entrance. As he approached, Bard recognised him. It was his old Commodore!

    But no, it couldn’t be. Commodore Minyatur had shorter hair than that. It couldn’t possibly have grown that much in just a few weeks. And the girl had called him Elrond…

    Thranduil pushed to the front of the group, his eyes hard on the man, who stared back with equal sternness.

    “You look bloody awful,” he said, inspecting Thranduil with a hint of distaste.

    “Your standards are higher,” Thranduil said coolly. “You’ve spent too much time on land.”

    They glared at each other a moment, and then their faces broke into grins and they embraced like brothers.

    “No, really, you look terrible. You had better not be bringing lice into my house,” the man scolded, grabbing Thranduil’s head and shaking it with a large hand, as though he were an insolent little boy.

    “I’ll consider calling them off if you let me have a bath,” Thranduil said.

    “Fine, but first you have to introduce me to these handsome gentlemen.”

    The attention was on Bard and Bilbo now. Bard shuffled uncomfortably on his feet, feeling very small and confused. The only conclusion he could come to was Commodore Minyatur and Lord Elrond were the same person.

    “This is Bilbo Baggins, our reluctant friend, and Bard, who was under your brother’s command until we picked him up,” Thranduil said. “Bard, Master Baggins, this is Lord Elrond.”

    Bard’s eyes narrowed. Brother?

    Oh, twins. More twins.

    Elrond hovered over Bard for a second, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Then he turned to Bilbo, extending a hand.

    “Elrond,” he said. “I do believe we owe you thanks for keeping those letters secured in one place.”

    Bilbo scowled, and did not accept the handshake. Elrond smiled.

    “You know where the washroom is. I’ll have a maid assist you; she’s already turned the boiler on," he said offhandedly to Thranduil. “Oh, and Tauriel, if you could take Nimrodel to a separate room.”

    The girl with long red hair nodded importantly and she took Nimrodel’s hand, sweeping her from the hall and through the courtyard.

    Thranduil jerked his head in the same direction. The pirates, Bard and Bilbo followed him. Glorfindel ruffled the hair of the two boys and went as well, winking at Elrond as he passed.

    Now that he was about to (finally) bathe, Bard was very aware of how dirty he was. He wasn’t convinced just one tub of water was going to be enough to clean off nearly four months at sea.

    They went through the courtyard, which seemed to sit in the middle of the house, as there were more rooms on the other side. Bard saw that the building was indeed built into the mountains. The rooms here were darker and cooler.

    They walked down a long, narrow flight of steps and then through a wooden door. Bard heard footsteps behind him and, turning around, saw that a girl had joined them. She was carrying a stack of white towels and looking quite anxious. Bard smiled reassuringly at her.

    Through the door was a room unlike Bard had ever seen before. In fact, it wasn’t a room at all, but a cave. The ceiling was brown rock and stalactites hung above them like the sharp teeth of a monster. In the centre of the floor was a deep, wide depression laden with smooth stone. Orange candles flickered in candelabras set into the cave walls.

   The maid bustled forward. She put the towels down on a table and approached the depression in the ground, which was framed on one side with stalagmites. Bard watched as she took a stool from the corner of the cave and brought it over to stand on. She reached up to chain that was connected to a wide pipe poking out of the ceiling. She tugged it, and the grinding sound of steel sounded from within. Then, clear water came bursting out of the pipe and into the depression, filling it in minutes. Steam rose and engulfed the cave in a pleasant humidity.

    When the pool was full, the maid let go of the chain and the rushing water stopped.

    “I’ll have clean clothes brought down,” she said, inclining her head politely before leaving.

    Bard and the others undressed. Glorfindel was first in. He ran forward and launched himself into the pool, splashing water all over the cave floor and causing the sound to echo. He hooted, lying on his back in the water, his golden hair floating around him.

    The water was incredibly comfortable. Bard sunk himself below the surface and emerged only when he could no longer breathe. Then, he grabbed a scrub and a bar of soap and began stripping himself of stale sweat and dirt and salt. The water was soon brown and soapy and everyone’s skin was pink and raw. Bard kept his eyes very firmly away from Thranduil, though this was decidedly difficult as he looked impossibly more beautiful with his skin flushed and his hair wet and clean.

    A man came in while they washed and set down piles of new clothes, taking away their dirty ones. When they were all clean and the water was starting to get cold, the pirates, Bard and Bilbo all got out, dried themselves, and got dressed. The cotton shirt and breaches felt like silk against Bard’s skin. He was so clean he felt weightless.

    The clothes were very well-made. Bard put on a red tunic uneasily, not sure if he was really the right sort of person to be wearing such fineries. But he didn’t want to feel excluded, so he fumbled awkwardly with the unfamiliar clasps and found it all fit him snugly.

    “They never make their clothes long enough,” Thranduil grumbled. His trousers were too short for him.

    Bard laughed before he could stop himself. Thranduil shot him an icy look, but for a furtive moment it softened slightly and Bard tried not to blush beneath it. He stuffed his feet into his boots and shuffled back upstairs.

    Tauriel was waiting for them in the courtyard. Beside her was Nimrodel. She was wearing new clothes too, but Bard was amused to see it was a dress. She looked very annoyed and kept pressing her hands to the tight bodice as if unsure she was really touching herself.

    “Dinner will be served soon,” Tauriel said. “Celebrían said she got a hold of most of the old crew.”

    They all followed her through the courtyard. The sun was beginning to set now and the house was coveted in the dark shadow of the mountain.

    Up the stairs and at the end of the right corridor was a dining room. Bard was trying his best not to be so stunned by the beauty of the house, but the sparkling chandeliers and silver goblets were nothing to be unimpressed by, especially considering it all belonged to an ex-pirate.

    It was not to be admired for long, however, as through the door after them came an absurd number of people of various shapes and sizes. They swarmed onto the pirates, shoving Bard and Bilbo to one side. Bilbo looked utterly perturbed and had not spoken a word since they arrived. Bard didn’t blame him; he wasn’t sure what he ought to say either.

    The dining table was only just large enough. In all, they were eighteen, squashed into every chair that was available. Bard was seated between Galion and Bilbo and lost for anyone to talk to. He was quite envious of Meludir who, despite being a newcomer in the eyes of all these people, fit in as easily as if he had known them for years.

    Bard was not introduced to anyone and so did his best to follow conversations and pick up names where he could. He found the man named Haldir, who sat on Thranduil’s right with two younger men who Bard assumed were his brothers, as they all had the same white-blonde hair and sharp noses. They were twins, also, and Bard didn’t bother to learn their names as he wouldn’t be able to tell them apart anyway.

    There was the woman from the tavern, who Bard learned was Lord Elrond’s wife, Celebrían, and Elladan and Elrohir were their sons. He also heard tell of a third child, Arwen, who was elsewhere in the house with Tauriel as she was too young to be among such rowdy people.

    None of them actually looked like a pirate was supposed to. This reoccurring feature was beginning to irritate Bard, because it only made him like them more. He supposed, however, that many of them had not been aboard a ship in some years. Even still, he wished he didn’t have an excuse to want to be better acquainted with them.

    The conversations were mostly that of catching up on things everyone had missed out on, so Bard was still in the dark about Thranduil’s dealings in the past. A man named Amroth was talking exuberantly to Nimrodel about his help as a carpenter concerning the infrastructure and restoration of Imladris. Glorfindel was listening attentively to someone called Lindir, who was a doctor of some sort and had created an antidote to the most recent plague. Galion and Thranduil spoke to a man beside Elrond who had long, sweeping black hair and an almost permanent scowl. And a fair-skinned man with a silvery, sarcastic voice had Feren, Lethuin and Meludir all bug-eyed at a thrilling tale about Sirens, which seemed a little far-fetched.    

    Bard leaned back in his chair, cupping his hands around a goblet of wine and sulking. No one was talking about what he wanted to hear, and Thranduil kept darting glances in his direction that were making him blush. Bard began to wonder if he would even hear Thranduil’s story before the night was out.


	7. Finer Details

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. This chapter is a bit longer than the others, but I had so much to include. There's lots of dialogue and I'm praying that it makes sense because there is so much plot to cover and this whole thing was nightmarish to write. But I'm hoping to include more personal back stories in the next few chapters.

 No one held much interest in Bard during the evening. Not that he sought to find in any fault in that. Based on the conversations he was listening to, the pirates had far better things to talk about than gems or dragons; things like Sirens and sword fights and cliff-diving. Bard preoccupied himself with the good food and the stories, and the cat that wandered in and out of the room at its own leisure. Every now and then, he caught Thranduil staring at him and averted his own gaze quickly, not wishing to draw attention to himself.

    It was long after dinner had been served and eaten and most of the wine drunk when another man joined the party.

    Bard was quite relieved to see his old Commodore enter the dining hall. And he was sure it was him this time because his chestnut hair was shorter and tied back in a tight knot. In spite of the pirates’ fineries and good manners, Commodore Minyatur outranked them effortlessly. His service to the King influenced his behaviour too much to suggest he could ever fully stoop to their level (if ‘stooping’ was the right word to use).

    He acknowledged Bard as he sat down next to Elrond. For all their differences, the brother's looked exactly the same, distinguishable only by Elros’ beard and Elrond’s lack of one.

    Elros was revealed to be less serious twin. He talked loudly and often and he laughed so much he seemed to be compensating for his brother’s pursed lips. He and Thranduil got on very well, too, which humoured Bard as he recalled their exchange aboard the _Thrush,_ which had been quite a decent bit of acting.

    The night carried on. Bard was very tired and still had said very little, as very little had been said to him. He resorted to coaxing the cat into his company, feeding it scraps under the table when no one was looking (though they almost never were). It eventually submitted and climbed onto his lap, purring happily.

    Some people said goodnight as the hour grew late. Elladan and Elrohir were sent to bed with much protestations and Celebrían had maids set up spare rooms for Thranduil and his crew to sleep in. Very soon, only half the company remained, gathered close to the fire and talking quietly. Bard moved up a few seats, listening intently, but trying not to get his hopes up about what he might overhear.

    “– paranoid as ever, of course. You put him on edge with that little display of yours,” Elros was saying to Thranduil.

    Thranduil waved a hand impatiently. “I’m not worried about that. Those theatrics were for the Queen’s sake; to let her know I haven’t given up. How is she?”

    “She is as diligent and cunning as ever. I do believe she’s taken a new lover,” said Elros with a grin.

    Thranduil chuckled. “How many is that this year?”

    “Three. The King is livid. He’ll hang her if she isn’t careful.”

    “And have riots in the streets? He wouldn’t dare. Besides, she is as perfectly entitled as he is to bed whomever she likes. It’s not as though she can have any more children,” said Thranduil reasonably.

    “Who knows?” Elrond piped up with a laugh. “Perhaps you have a little brother or sister on the way.”

    Thranduil grimaced. “And perhaps luck will be on my side for once and I’ll get my hands on those gems.”

    Bard listened, picking grapes off a stalk absent-mindedly. He was trying to think of how to phrase his questions, should they be permitted, and should he have the courage to ask them at all. He could feel the conversation winding its way to more serious matters; like the gems, and what they were, and what this whole fiasco was about.

    “So, tell me, how has it taken you so long to reach Imladris?” Elros asked.

    “Didn’t you see that Navy ship come after us?” Thranduil said bitterly.

    “Oh, yes. How did you evade them?”

    “Got them stuck in Midgewater,” piped up Nimrodel on Bard’s left.

    Elros barked a laugh. “Poor souls.”

    “They had it coming. And it was Bard’s idea, really. Well, he instigated it,” Glorfindel spoke, gesturing to Bard.

    Bard felt his ears grow hot as nearly a dozen pairs of eyes swivelled around to look at him. He didn’t want to take any credit for what happened in Midgewater. He was not proud of what they had done. Of what _he_ had done to his own colleagues.

    “How do you like being a pirate?” Elros inquired, now that the attention was on Bard.

    He shifted awkwardly. “I’m not a pirate, sir,” he said.

    Elros's eyes narrowed. “You have sailed under the command of a pirate; does that not make you one as well?”

    “Bard thinks he’s above all that,” Thranduil said, smirking.

    There was a titter as some people laughed. Bard went redder and avoided Thranduil’s lingering gaze.

    “Well, surely you think Captain Thranduil’s cause a worthy one?” Elrond motioned, pouring some wine for himself.

    “I haven’t been told of the cause, my lord,” said Bard, becoming all the more uncomfortable.

    Elros’ eyebrow’s shot up at this in amazement. “Why is that?”

    Thranduil made a noncommittal sort of noise and disappeared behind his goblet. Elros and Elrond, however, seemed to understand.

    “I was hoping you could enlighten me,” Bard added hopefully.

    Elros chuckled, but not with mirth. “It isn’t a nice story. I do not really blame Thranduil for not telling you."

    “I would still like to hear it before I make my decision.”

    Silence fell as Elros considered these words. Bard was hesitant to actually trust anything that came from the mouth of a double-crosser, but he was desperate to know something; _anything_. He wanted some kind of thread to follow.

    “It’s difficult to know where to begin. The tale is quite scattered in its secrets and truths,” Elros finally said. He looked to Thranduil for help, but the other man was unresponsive, looking pensive and withdrawn. “Well, you know of course that Thranduil here is the King’s son?”

    Bard nodded.

    “And you know that, six years ago, he betrayed that title?”

    Bard started, looking wildly at Thranduil in surprise. He had _betrayed_ the King? Bard had been under the impression that they had just had some kind of disagreement, as kings and their sons tended to do. Then again, turning to piracy was a little extreme even in terms of a rebellion.

    “You betrayed your own father? Why?”

    “Because he is a cruel, malicious old man who cares for no one but himself.” Thranduil gripped his goblet so hard it was a wonder he did not dent it beneath his white-knuckled fingers.

    “King Oropher is a slave-trader, Bard,” said Elrond quietly. “He sells children to the northern countries.”

    Bard felt suddenly very nauseous. He wasn’t sure if he was prepared to believe that, but it did explain why he had sometimes seen children working on the docks in Laketown. He tried not to dwell on it for the moment. He could put everything together once he had been given some more puzzle pieces.

    “What did Thranduil do?” he asked.

    “He found out. The King hushed it all up because he knew it wouldn’t look good, especially considering he isn’t the most upstanding of monarch’s. But Thranduil came across a curious pattern of shipments and decided to investigate.” Elrond stopped, looking at Thranduil to make sure he was telling the story correctly. Thranduil gave no indication that he was even listening, but Bard could tell by the way he hardly even blinked that he was.

    Elros picked up the narrative when Elrond did not continue. “It was very difficult work. Thranduil and his colleagues spent nearly a year tracking down ships behind his father’s back and freeing the slaves aboard. Glorfindel and Lethuin were among that company, as well as others you have sailed with. The rest… the rest have passed.” He paused for a moment, out of respect. “The children were brought here to live under Lord Elrond’s protection. They are all grown-up now and have moved on, but some have stayed, and we continue to take in any others.”

    Elros’ eyes flickered to Tauriel, who was listening with her head down and her expression very hard, like Thranduil’s.

    “Surely the sailors of these ships would have told the King?” Bard said quickly.

    Thranduil gave a short, hollow laugh.

    “Dead men tell no tales, Bard,” Elros said with a grimace.

    Bard blanched. He looked at Thranduil, but got no other sign of emotion from him. Bard was beginning now to understand why he and the others did not wish to tell the story themselves.

    “But someone survived?” It was just a guess.

    “No. Oropher’s discovery of Thranduil’s betrayal is largely thanks to me. I caught him ferrying children onto a ship destined for Imladris. I was suspicious of his connection with my brother, who I did not speak to at the time. I arrested Thranduil and brought him to answer to the King,” said Elros.

    Thranduil seemed to smile at this, as though he was fond of the memory.

    “Why?” Bard asked.

    “I was young and desperate for a pay rise,” said Elros simply. “I’m not proud of what I did, but I became of use in the end.”

    “How?” Bard was struggling to keep up. He didn’t see how all of this related to treasure.

    “Realising my mistake, I went to the Queen. She had not been told of her husband’s dealings with the northern countries. When she understood why her son had been arrested, she immediately had him released – and quite cleverly, too, for Oropher never suspected her of smuggling Thranduil out of the kingdom. And he's been freeing slaves ever since.”

    “But how do the gems factor into this?” Bard asked, looking at Thranduil again.

    “Those are no ordinary gems, Bard. They will secure the freedom of every slave in a single act, and more. They are heirlooms of the crown, handed down for generations through sons and daughters as they succeed the throne,” said Elros, turning his gaze very deliberately to Thranduil as well. “They give any owner of royal descent the immediate right to rule.”

    “Then why are they hidden? If they belong to Thranduil –”

    Elros interrupted. “King Oropher is not of royal blood, as many believe. It is through Queen Nemireth’s ancestors that the gems were passed down, and so it was he who married into the monarchy. But, as tradition dictates, the King is the one who takes control of the government and of the family. Afraid for his crown, Oropher had the gems taken to Erebor for safekeeping.”

    Comprehension dawned on Bard. “You seek to claim the throne,” he whispered to Thranduil.

    Thranduil’s eyes flickered to Bard for a fraction of a second. “I do not wish to rule.”

    “Oropher believes that to be the case, however. The Queen feigns loyalty to him and he is under the impression that Thranduil wishes to usurp him,” Elros said. “While Nemireth can do nothing when her husband is in power, with the gems in her possession she can overrule him and stop the slavery. She cannot oppose him without them. When Thranduil escaped, he promised to find them.”

    “And for six years I have failed her,” Thranduil murmured. He downed the rest of his wine in one gulp.

    “No,” said Tauriel sharply on his left. “You fail only when you stop trying.”

    There was another moment of silence.

    “What happened in Erebor?” Bard asked, still eager to know more.

    He heard a sharp intake of breath to his right. Glorfindel’s hand tightened into a fist on the table.

    “Erebor was a set-up.” Nimrodel spoke before Elros or Elrond could. “For four years we searched for the gems. No one – not even the Queen – knew where they were. Only King Oropher knew. And that’s where Elros came in. He became Commodore and got his hands on some rather useful information. He gave the information to the Queen and left Greenwood to look for us. It wasn’t difficult as we were larger in number then and Elrond and his crew were with us at the time. We sailed immediately for Erebor to recover the gems, but the King’s Navy were already waiting there. As soon as we arrived, they attacked and the gems were taken from their hiding place. Elrond’s ship was some miles behind us and tried to defend us, but we were outnumbered and had to flee. We lost most of our crew.”

    Glorfindel suddenly stood up at this. Red-eyed and trembling, he left the room without a word.

    “I’ll go,” said Elrond. He followed Glorfindel.

    “Ecthelion was the best of us,” whispered Nimrodel, her voice breaking slightly.

    No one spoke for a very long time. Elrond returned, looking solemn. He sat, and Bard plucked up his courage to continue his interrogation.

    “What have you all done since then?”

    “I have remained under the King’s service, but I have been assisting the Queen and Thranduil any way I can,” said Elros. “As for Thranduil…”

    “We have done little but look for clues and free slaves. I cannot set foot in Greenwood without being arrested or killed, so I have been relying on Elros to provide me with any news or information. It was he who arranged the interception outside Laketown. He uncovered a letter to the King from Thorin Oakenshield that mentioned Bilbo’s correspondence. Elros wrote to him, inquiring after them under the pretence that the King wanted to know, and then he sailed for the Shire to retrieve the chest. And it was all at great personal risk, I believe?” Thranduil said, turning to Elros.

    “I have Nemireth’s protection… for as long as I keep my nose out of trouble,” Elros assured.

    “Not very long, then,” Elrond joked.

    “What about this sea serpent?” Bard persisted.

    “That is no myth, I’m afraid,” said Elros gravely. “I’ve heard the King speak of it. Smaug, he’s called. He agreed to keep the gems safe – indefinitely. He isn’t likely to give them up to anyone without a fight.”

    “But surely there’s an easier way? At what cost will you reclaim them?” Bard said, swallowing hard.

    “At any cost,” said Thranduil.

    “These gems are more sacred than you can imagine, Bard,” Elrond said carefully, taking over for his brother. “It is said they are made from pure starlight. I do believe Thranduil has some in his possession.”

    Thranduil held his hand to his chest again, where various necklaces hung. He moved to unclasp one of them, but reconsidered and drew his sword from his belt instead. He slid it across the table to where Bard was sitting. He took it gingerly and saw the white jewels encrusted into the hilt. They were tiny, circling the very end, but were unmistakably the same gems Thranduil was searching for. Bard had never seen anything like them; they held a beauty of a world beyond this one.

    He handed the sword back to its owner, and Thranduil sheathed it.

    “While those gems remained guarded, King Oropher’s rule is unchallenged. He will continue to ferry slaves to the northerners. And that’s not all he does. You think he is a good king, Bard? He has brought nothing but ill upon this world. It is because of him that women cannot pass the right to vote, that free towns are being burned because of their lack of loyalty, that children are being sold as slaves, and that honest sailors are branded pirates if they sail without colours. It’s more than just a throne and a handful of gems; it’s a war.”

    Thranduil stood up abruptly, just as Glorfindel had done. He swept a stare around the room and then left, his heavy boots echoing down the hall and out of earshot.

    Bard leaned back in his chair, stunned. His head spun like he had seasickness.

    “Have you chosen a side, little rat?” Nimrodel said. “Do you understand what’s right and wrong?”

    Bard got to his feet. He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe the story, but the look on Thranduil’s face was hard to forget. There had been so much raw emotion there; so much hatred and misery and regret.

    He hurried out of the room, thinking hard and listening for Thranduil’s footsteps. What did he have to lose by believing? There was nothing left for him in Greenwood or Laketown; not under the jurisdiction of such corruption, and not if Thranduil wasn’t there. Bard had made his decision weeks ago, really. He would sail under Thranduil; there was no turning back now. This was the right choice to make.

    He caught up with him down the hall, heading towards his private bedroom. Bard broke into a run and grasped Thranduil around the wrist just as he was about to enter.

    Thranduil pulled at his arm, looking furiously at Bard. “Leave me alone.”

    “Why didn’t you tell me?” Bard demanded.

    For a moment, Thranduil didn’t answer. He looked at Bard with cold indifference. “The burden of my crew and myself is a heavy one.”

    “But you could have at least told me about the slaves. How do you expect me to uphold my actions in the name of a corrupt king? How do you think that makes me feel?”

    Thranduil’s expression softened. “I didn’t want you to think I was deceiving you. I wanted you to trust me first.”

    Bard stood very still as he thought about this. It didn’t make much sense, but it did explain Thranduil’s kindness to him. And the kiss…

    “Why did you pull me aboard your ship, really?”

    “I told you why,” Thranduil snapped.

    Bard set him with a stern glare. Thranduil flinched slightly beneath it, obviously unwilling to give a more truthful response. He sighed, twisting his wrist timidly in Bard’s grip.

    “I couldn’t bear to think that someone so brave and loyal might sail back to a monster and serve him blindly. I wanted – I wanted you to like me.”

    Bard gaped at him, completely bewildered. His was suddenly aware of how fast his heart was beating. He felt quite flattered, in fact, that Thranduil had taken such a fancy to him. And Bard had, after all, reinitiated their kiss. He couldn’t very well say he hadn’t considered how Thranduil might really feel about him, or how he had even dared to fantasise about it.

    Thranduil drew himself up to his full height and yanked his arm out of Bard’s hand. “It doesn’t matter anymore. You know the truth now and you can go home if you still desire it.”

    “I don’t want to go home,” said Bard at once. “I like you.”

    It just felt like another right thing to do. He grabbed Thranduil by the front of his shirt and brought him down into a kiss. Their teeth and noses bumped in the collision. Thranduil’s fingers found Bard’s face, so soft and gentle that they made his skin prickle pleasantly. It was dangerous, really, how easily Thranduil brought down his defences. But it was good.

    He was moved through the door and into the darkness of the bedroom, away from prying eyes and those who might see them for what they truly were. It wasn’t wrong, Bard was certain of that, but he had a feeling no one else was permitted to see this part of Thranduil, whatever it was. It made Bard’s heart leap rather territorially and he deepened his kisses, bearing them down on Thranduil’s neck and collarbones.

    He saw at last the necklaces that hung there; two iron keys, and a roughly-carved jewel that shone even without the reflection of light, like a star. He took a moment to stare at it, but then continued assailing Thranduil’s clothes with his hands, pressing bruising kisses into his skin. Bard had his mind on other treasures, and he took Thranduil to bed.

   

    Bard couldn’t believe he had tried to turn a blind eye. What was there to possibly gain from ignoring such wonder? He shifted over in the bed, the morning light falling across his back and onto Thranduil beside him. Thranduil slept on, his arm flung carelessly over his face and his hair like silk against the pillow.

    Bard couldn’t bring himself to regret it. He had made his decision, after all.

    It was early still, but he no longer felt like sleep. Bard got out of bed so as not to disturb Thranduil and put his clothes on. A fire had been lit – recently, judging by the still unburnt logs – and Bard felt himself blush at the thought of having had an audience to his indiscretion.

    It was cold outside as there was no warmth in the shade of the mountains. Bard shivered slightly, looking around. He wanted breakfast, but wasn’t really sure where he ought to get it.

    “Well, well, well.”

    He froze where he stood, outside the door to Thranduil’s bedroom. Turning slowly, he saw Glorfindel approaching from a couple of doors down, grinning very smugly.

    “We wondered where you two disappeared to last night. If you want to undergo your walk of shame, you’re supposed to be bunking with Galion and Meludir, through that door.” He pointed across the gap in the second floor to the doors on the other side. Then, he gave Bard a rather disappointed look. “I guess Nimrodel won the bet.”

    “What bet?” Bard said hotly.

    Glorfindel smirked. “We all bet on how long it would take for you to warm up to the Captain,” he said. “I had four months, but I’ve underestimated you it seems.”

    He left, heading back the way he had come to go down the stairs. Bard thought about going back into Thranduil’s room, but his empty stomach was quite insistent, and he followed Glorfindel to the ground floor.

    “Do you know where to get some food around here?” he asked, jogging to catch up.

    Glorfindel nodded. “Come on, then. You can tell me the thrilling tale of how you ended up in Thranduil’s bed.”

    Bard frowned. He didn’t much fancy sharing something quite so private, but he had a feeling there was little point in keeping it to himself. No doubt Thranduil would tell Glorfindel, and Glorfindel would tell everyone else.

    The kitchens were in the servant’s quarters across the courtyard. Glorfindel asked for breakfast and a sleepy-looking cook stirring a pot nodded at him, tottering away to get some food.

    Glorfindel sat down with a happy flourish, slumping in the chair. “It’s so good to be back on land. There’s tea, and fresh bread, and beds that don’t swing!”

    “I take it you don’t like sailing,” said Bard, also sitting down at the table.

    “I like it just fine. But even you can’t deny that rum-laced water gets to you after a while.”

    Bard nodded as the cook set down plates of bread and a fresh pot of tea. Glorfindel grabbed a cup at once and started to pour.

    “So, what do you think?” he said, dropping cubes of sugar into the cup.

    “What do I think about what?” said Bard.

    Glorfindel rolled his eyes. “About last night; the meeting.”

    “Oh,” said Bard. He paused, thinking. “I don’t know.”

    “You don’t believe it?” Glorfindel mused, taking some bread. “And yet I heard Captain Thranduil all but sully your good name last night.”

    Bard turned a very vivid shade of red and busied himself with the tea. Glorfindel laughed.

    “If it makes you feel any better, I know how you feel. It’s not an easy thing to accept that the King you have sworn to serve and protect is nothing but a liar and a tyrant.”

    Bard considered this. “You said you were once a lord,” he said.

    “The heir to a lord, if you want to be specific about it. My father was – is – a part of the royal council, so Thranduil and I grew up together.”

    “And you helped him free slaves?” said Bard.

    “It’s how I lost my hand,” said Glorfindel nonchalantly. As if to emphasise this, he smacked his stump onto a piece of bread to hold it still while he buttered it.

    “I thought Thranduil cut off your hand."

    Glorfindel gave Bard a horrified expression. “What? Why would you think – oh!” He laughed, obviously remembering Thranduil’s threat on Bard’s first day. “No, he was just teasing me. I had my hand cut off by the slave traders in the north. We chased a ship far enough to their midway port and got ambushed. I was first in line to the chopping block, but Thranduil and the others managed to break free and we escaped. The executioner was already swinging his axe when Celebrimbor pulled me out of the way, so he got my hand.”

    “You were going to be executed?” said Bard in disbelief. “Why?”

    “Because we’re pirates."

    “But I thought pirates were hanged.”

    “We thought so too, but apparently things are a little different up there. I guess beheadings are more entertaining than watching someone writhe from a rope until they shit themselves and suffocate.”

     Bard put his bread aside, feeling ill.

    “How did you escape?” he asked, hoping to ease the sickness.

    “Thranduil’s good with his fingers, you know. He nicked a key from a guard and removed everyone’s shackles while the attention was on me. I just got unlucky, really, by being first. He couldn’t get to me in time. But I don’t mind – better my hand than my head.”

    “Do you think Thranduil blames himself?” Bard wondered.

    Glorfindel’s face fell. “If he does, he won’t admit it.”

    “What happened after that? Did you fight your way out?”

    “Fight? No way, we ran for it. I’ve never run so fast in my life. I was hardly even aware that my hand was missing. Our ship was anchored in the bay, so we had to swim back to it, and in the middle of winter too!”

    “Did you free the slaves?” Bard said.

    “Oh, yeah. We took the ship before it even got to land, but we went ashore to have a look around. Once we escaped, we brought the children here. I stayed here for a while too - to recover. Elrond has some really great doctors.”

    “How did you take a ship with only seven of you?”

    Glorfindel looked almost offended. “We’re good fighters, and slave-traders hardly know which end of a sword is the pointy one. And, besides, there were more than seven of us at the time.”

    Bard said nothing to this, having run out of questions. Well, not run out, but felt he had used up his opportunities for the day. He had so much still to ask, but he felt impertinent and annoying. Glorfindel was humming quietly to himself while he spread jam on his bread.

    “You’re at perfect liberty to continue your interrogation,” he said after a moment.

    Bard started. “But you have been so reluctant to tell me anything at all until just now,” he said peevishly.

    “It depends on the questions you ask, little rat,” said Glorfindel patiently. “We came to a universal agreement last night that you ought to be told everything, since you’re part of the crew now.”

    Bard felt his heart jolt. “Part of the crew? But I –”

    He still didn’t like the idea of being labelled a pirate. Just cause or not, piracy was a crime and it was perilous... and there was that sea serpent to be wary of.

    “You can’t squirm your way out of it now, mate. Last night’s sexual proclivity has confirmed your decision. Call it an initiation, if you will.”

    Bard couldn’t argue with this, especially since it was more than just ‘sexual proclivity’ that was spurring him to see this quest to its end. He was a sailor, and he liked Thranduil; Bard would serve the true monarchy or be condemned to a life without purpose.

    “There is so much to take in. This quest seems… unreal, yet you are all so dedicated to it,” he said.

    “We swore an oath to the Queen,” said Glorfindel seriously. “And we do not wish to serve under a false king. When we succeed, we can return to the royal court. We can do anything we like.”

    “But what if you don’t survive?” said Bard.

    “Better to die for a cause worth fighting for than be the coward that runs from the truth,” said Glorfindel.

    “Will you take up your father’s title, then?”

    “I have not decided yet. I mean, I don’t love sailing, but I’d miss the sea. And, once you’re out here, it’s hard to picture yourself going back. I couldn’t be that person again.”

    “Perhaps you can stay here?” Bard suggested.

    “And do what? No, I’m not like Elrond.”

    “He was a pirate once, yes?”

    “For years. He’s famous for plundering the southern king’s personal vault and fighting for the pirate rebellion a decade ago,” Glorfindel said.

    “What made him settle down?” Bard asked.

    “Celebrían. She was a pirate first, you know? Elrond started out just like you. Navy rat – all set to become lieutenant – until his ship got boarded and he crossed swords with pirates. And Celebrían was among them, disguised as a boy. She fancied him and convinced the captain to spare his life. Then, their ship was attacked and the crew taken prisoner. Elrond was set free, and he helped them all escape. The captain had already been hanged, so Elrond took over by popular vote. Celebrían got pregnant not long after that and she came here for a couple of years. But she missed the sea and set sail again when Elrond returned to see her. The twins – Elladan and Elrohir – grew up on a ship. They lived a good pirate’s life for a few years, but then Celebrían was with child again and settled here permanently while Elrond went to help Thranduil recover the gems.”

    Bard whistled. “Everyone has such interesting stories,” he said. “It’s hard to keep up.”

    Glorfindel grinned. “With any luck, you’ll know everyone all too well once we set sail again.”

    “When do we set sail?”

    “When we have a crew. I heard that’s up to you to organise,” said Glorfindel.

    “Thranduil enlisted my help,” said Bard defensively. “But I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

    “You might find it easier than you think. Contrary to your poor introductions, Elrond’s men are quite intrigued by you. The fact that a Navy rat might sail with Thranduil for these gems is inspiring. Elrond could offer his help before the week is out.”

    “Why is Thranduil concerned that he won’t?” Bard inquired.

    “He saw the attack on Erebor with his own eyes. It wasn’t pretty up close, but I can’t imagine the devastation from a distance. I think he fears to risk the lives of his men, and himself. And I don’t blame him, either. A sea serpent is nothing to be enthusiastic about.”

    “But if the cause is just –”

    “The cause doesn’t mean shit to him, little rat. Elrond is happy in his hidey-hole of a harbour without the King breathing down his neck and slaves running through his port. He needs to be mollified. There needs to be something in it for him,” Glorfindel concluded.

    Bard faltered, frowning slightly. He didn’t see why Elrond needed a reason to help. The slavery of children was despicable. Yet, he didn’t blame him for not wanting to face a sea serpent. That continued to make even Bard second-guess his choices.

    Glorfindel and Bard were just finishing their breakfast when the rest of the crew came blundering in. The cook, who looked quite harassed at having so many guests, set about getting more bread and frying some bacon and eggs. Bard stood up to offer his chair to Nimrodel, and he left the kitchen, his thoughts still on everything he had learned.

     He never would have expected Thranduil’s quest to be quite so… noble. Bard was overcome with intense respect for the man. It couldn’t be easy to sacrifice everything for the Queen and for people he didn’t even know. But Bard agreed that the cause was just. It was the right thing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope it wasn't too confusing. And I had to give a name to Thranduil's mom since she's going to be a main character. Her name literally means 'water jewels' so I think I did okay. If you have any questions that I might have failed to answer, put them in the comments and I'll make sure they're answered in the next chapter. See you next week :)  
> P.S. You're all here for the long haul this fic is ridiculous.


	8. Beach Day

Bard liked Imladris a great deal. He was almost sorry to know that he would be leaving it soon. There was peace and quiet in the white walls of Elrond’s home. The breeze would come in from the beach and filter gently through the curtains, keeping the rooms cool and pleasant, and the beds were soft so there was much sleep to be found in the night time. Bard spent every spare minute he had putting up his feet, exploring the town, and listening to stories. He learned a great deal during his stay - about Thranduil more than anyone - though he did not realise it until much later.

    “It is good to see how well you have taken to him,” said Tauriel one day while Bard helped her hang out the laundry in one of the upper balconies.

    “What do you mean?” he said.

    “Thranduil is different when you are together. People think he is cold and sullen, and perhaps that is true, but not with you around.”

    “Nor with you,” said Bard pointedly.

    “Perhaps we are the lucky ones,” Tauriel said with a smile.

    “How do you know him?” Bard already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her.

    “We met when I was still quite young – only twelve. I was one of the slaves aboard the first ship he intercepted,” she said. “I was so grateful I refused to leave his side for the entire crossing to Imladris. We became close. He is like my brother.”

    “What made you stay here after all the others had gone?” Bard said.

    “I don’t think there is any other place for me to call home. I have a good life here and a good family. I help Celebrían and Elrond and they care for me well. And when more slaves are freed, I look after them. I like it here.”

    Bard nodded slowly, putting up the last item of clothing. Water dripped from it and evaporated immediately on the concrete. They left the sunny balcony and retreated into the coolness of the house. A bell rang in the distance for lunch.

    “You and he are well matched, you know?” Tauriel remarked.

    Bard blushed. “I don’t think it’s of any consequence.”

    “But you love him.”

    Bard said nothing. He didn’t have the heart to deny to it, but he didn’t quite agree either. He barely knew Thranduil. He just liked the way his skin felt and the way he made Bard smile even when there was nothing immediate to smile about.

    He did not see much of Thranduil those first few days in Imladris. He kept mostly indoors, talking to Elros in the study or pilfering Elrond’s library, always on the hunt for information. They shared each other’s company only during some mealtimes, and at night when everyone had gone to sleep. Bard had taken to going straight into Thranduil’s chambers. They always retired separately, as though to keep it secret, but it was easily the most poorly-kept secret in the house. Everyone knew, but it was not spoken of. They were not alone, after all, and Bard had the curious feeling that many of the others thought along the same lines as Tauriel. She had not been wrong to say that people considered Thranduil to be indifferent and stern. Bard had evidently stirred something within him, for no matter how stressed or upset Thranduil was, he seemed to smile more broadly than he used to.

    Perhaps Bard had stirred something good and kind within Thranduil, and perhaps he found it in their bed sheets or in the brushes of their legs under the table at dinner, but Thranduil wasn’t all that different to when Bard had first met him. True, his first impressions had been greatly misguided, but he still believed Thranduil to be a terse, hard-hearted man. The only difference was that Bard no longer blamed him for it anymore.

    What Bard learned above all else was that Thranduil was lost and frustrated. He agonised constantly over the journey ahead, unable to keep his fears and frets from spilling out onto the pillow when Bard was already halfway to sleep. And sometimes Bard woke in the middle of the night and Thranduil would still be awake, staring up at the ceiling, or else he would not be there at all, and Bard would join him on the balcony, staring out to the open sea over the harbour.

    Thranduil never confessed his concerns to Bard. He worried and complained more than was really necessary, but he never told Bard of how he was truly and honestly afraid; afraid to fail and afraid to risk the lives of the people he cared about. But he never had to say it. Bard shared these concerns; he was frightened too.

    He did his best to help. Thranduil did not ask for council, but for company, and Bard was more than happy to give it to him. As the first week in Imladris wore on, Thranduil began to abandon his upending of Elrond’s library and took to spending more time with Bard, talking about anything and everything, except what they were there for.

    “You seem tense,” Thranduil commented one night. They were walking through the gardens, passing some time before it was acceptable to go to bed. The days were long and they tired easily.

    Bard cast a nervous glance to the other man, who looked solemn. There were dark circles under Thranduil’s eyes and he walked slowly.

    “I’m overwhelmed,” Bard said after some thought. “I feel out of place here.”

    A creased formed between Thranduil’s eyebrows. “You do not feel as though you belong?”

    “I have never felt that way about anywhere,” Bard admitted. “I thought joining the Navy was the right thing to do, but it turned out to be just another dead end.”

    “But had you never joined the Navy, you would not be here today,” Thranduil reasoned.

    “Here, there, it’s all the same. Sometimes I feel like I wasn’t born to belong.”

    “You stand out among these men and women. You are neither pirate, nor old friend. But that isn’t important. We are all here because there is nowhere else for us to go. We don’t belong anywhere either.”

    Thranduil sighed, kicking a stray pebble on the path. It danced along the pavement and fell into a pond ahead of them. They stopped, standing by its edge.

    “Piracy has probably reorganised my priorities,” Thranduil said after some silence had passed. “I don’t expect to be welcomed home when my task is done, whether I fail or succeed. Belonging somewhere no longer occurs to me as being of any merit.”

    “What will you do, once all of this is over?”

    “I don’t know. The sea beckons me, but perhaps I will go home regardless of its call. I swore an oath to serve the Queen, so I suppose I ought to do her bidding,” said Thranduil, though he held no real conviction in these words.

    “You won’t stay a pirate? I imagine it would be hard to leave this life behind,” Bard said.

    Thranduil smiled briefly. “Surely you would disapprove if I did.”

    “I didn’t think you sought my approval for anything.”

    Thranduil laughed, and his voice carried across the water like it was trying to break the surface. “I don’t. But where am I without you? A pirate I may always be, but even the sea is not reason enough to keep me from the shore. A pirate seeks plunder, but what could I possibly search for that is more valuable to me than you?”

    Bard’s heart missed several beats. He could not find a response suitable enough. How could Thranduil say this with such ease? Bard felt his face grow hot and he looked down at his feet, utterly speechless.

    “I’m sorry,” said Thranduil quietly. Bard looked up at him again. “I should not be so forward.”

    He made to leave, but Bard made a quick grab for his wrist. He pulled Thranduil back, letting his hand wander so their fingers might join.

    “What would you have me do?” he said. “You are one decision I cannot make. To love you is reckless, but to cast you aside is unthinkable. I hardly even know you, yet I am willing to face death because you have done little but ask it of me. How can I justify it?”

    It was Thranduil’s turn to say nothing, but his eyes did not leave Bard’s. There was sadness in them. Bard raised his other hand to frame Thranduil’s face with it and he ran a thumb across a high cheekbone, down to Thranduil’s neck, gliding through his hair.

    “It is not justification on your part, Bard,” Thranduil finally said. “I am leading you into such danger – one or both of us may not survive this – and yet I can do nothing but feel my affection for you grow. I could not see you hurt, but neither do I wish to be parted from you.”

    “And I follow blindly. I do not belong, but I am here, because you are here,” said Bard.

    “We are fools,” Thranduil muttered, and there was the hint of a smile on his lips.

    Bard kissed it away. “Better reckless fools together than reckless fools apart.”      

    “Are we either or?”

    “There’s no denying it now.”

    Bard’s lips met Thranduil’s with another kiss. Yes, this was foolish. It was reckless and unjust and it set his heart alight with joy. He would follow Thranduil into any danger, and be glad for it. He didn’t know why he felt quite so abandoned by his senses, but he had nothing to lose. Death might meet him at the end of this, but at least it was for a good cause. It wasn’t like the life of a sailor’s held no risk of fatality, so why be a sailor when he could be a pirate?

 

    Speaking of pirates, Bard had little to no luck recruiting Elrond’s men into Thranduil’s service, and Thranduil had no luck recruiting Elrond. It seemed quite hopeless.

    “Are they arguing again?” said Nimrodel irritably after breakfast, as she and Bard watched the retreating backs of Elrond and Thranduil, both of them tense and gesturing wildly. “At this rate, we’ll never get off this island. They are both of them too stubborn for their own good.”

    “I wish I could help,” said Bard glumly. “But nobody seems interested enough to talk to me. I can’t get any of Elrond’s men to say more than a few words to me.”

    “I think we ought to start making a collective effort. Glorfindel and the others need to pull their weight.”

    Bard didn’t nod, but he agreed very earnestly with this declaration. He wasn't proud enough to reject any help in this fruitless endeavour. 

    Nimrodel groaned, fanning herself with a hand. “I can’t wait to be aboard a ship once more. I am so tired of wearing these dreadful skirts. It’s so hot I can’t stand it. Oh, hello Erestor.”

    Erestor, it turned out, was by far the oddest of all the pirates Bard had met. His black hair was so long it rivalled that of Glorfindel’s, and he seemed to know everything about everything. He was a scholarly man, Elros had explained, but that didn’t quite validate his necessity to act so insufferably. For the most part, Bard liked him, but his personality was better filtered through Glorfindel, who liked to tease him.

    “Hello,” said Erestor airily. He considered Nimrodel and Bard for a moment, his dark eyes curious. “Have you seen Glorfindel?”

    “No, why?”

    “He’s stolen my good dagger,” he said, and then he walked away, looking rather absent.

    "He’s so odd," Nimrodel said, shaking her head.

    “I think he’s okay.”

    “Are you doing anything right now?”

    “No.”

    “Come on.” She took Bard by the arm. “I need some help carrying weapons to get them sharpened.”

    The  _Eryn Lasgalen_  bobbed merrily in the sun at the docks. Bard hadn’t looked upon it all week and felt his heart swell at the sight of it, admiring it more than ever. Its balustrade was handsome, and at the front of the ship was a beautiful woman in a flowing dress, immaculately carved out of a single piece of wood.

    Together, Nimrodel and Bard retrieved the spare weapons from the hold. Bard found his old sword, and slid it into his belt with his pistol for safekeeping. Then, they took everything to a blacksmith, who lived near the docks next to a small tavern.

    “Nim!”

    A man greeted them with a spectacular smile. He was one of the blonde twins who had been present at the meeting on the first day. He was dressed unkemptly in a loose shirt and trousers, covered in soot and dirt and sweat from working the bellows and anvil. He was braiding his hair away from his face as Nimrodel spoke.

    “Hi, Rúmil. Can you sharpen these for us?”

    Rúmil nodded, indicating a table for Bard and Nimrodel to dump the weapons on. They did so, and Rúmil set to work on the grinder. Nimrodel went about polishing each weapon as it was sharpened and Bard sat beside her, watching.

    “You have been here for a while now,” Rúmil said, turning a cutlass over on the grinder. “Do you ever plan to leave?”

    “Soon. Captain doesn’t want to sail without a decent crew,” said Nimrodel.

    “Orophin and I would go with you if our brother wasn’t so stubborn. He thinks Thranduil’s quest is foolish.” Rúmil had a soft voice, which unnerved Bard. He was slim built and young, but he sharpened the weapons with surprising malice, and his hands were strong against the machine.

    “Haldir is foolish. He does not see the bigger picture.”

    “He does,” said Rúmil. “He fears for us, but we long to sail. I am tired of these bellows and small spaces. I yearn for the open sea. Haldir has such exciting tales of when he sailed with Elrond.”

    “You shouldn’t let your brother deter you from joining us,” Bard piped up, seizing what he prayed was an opportunity to recruit some crew. “I’m sure if you expressed your interest enough, he will come around.”

    “Perhaps. He is curious of you, Bard. Why do you stay with Thranduil when there is such danger in his path?”

    “It’s the right thing to do,” said Bard. “I understand why King Oropher’s reign might not concern the people here, but if he has connections as far as the Shire, I’m sure he will soon turn his sights to Imladris. A port such as this cannot remain free for long.”

    “You don’t think we have the means to stand against him?”

    It was not Rúmil who spoke, but Haldir, who had emerged from the shadow of a doorway. He looked stern.

    “I don’t. The King has thousands of soldiers at his disposal. You will be overrun,” said Bard.

    Haldir sighed, stepping forward and rubbing an eye wearily. “You’re right, of course. But to face a sea serpent… it is no less dangerous than facing an army.”

    “Maybe not, but we stand more chance against one dragon than thousands of men.”

    Haldir raised an eyebrow, evidently impressed by Bard’s determination, though Bard didn’t really feel it. He believed it, yes, but nerves and worry twisted in his stomach as he said the words.

    “I want to go with them, Haldir,” said Rúmil, pausing on the grinder and looking imploringly at his brother. “I want to fight.”

    “This isn’t a war, Rúmil, it’s a suicide mission,” Haldir snapped.

    Rúmil got to his feet suddenly, the cutlass he had been sharpening clattering to the floor. “And since when did you leave your friends to such a fate? Thranduil needs us! He is your friend.”

    Haldir scowled at this. “And you are my family! I will not let you die for such recklessness.”

    “You can’t stop us,” Rúmil growled.

    “We better go,” Nimrodel muttered to Bard, tugging his sleeve. “They’ll shout each other hoarse before they come to an agreement.”

    They slipped out of the smithy, Bard feeling anxious.

    “What if I’ve made it worse?”

    “You haven’t. Haldir always disagrees with Rúmil and Orophin’s choices. He’s only a few years older than them, but he treats them like children. All you have done is sparked a much-needed conversation,” Nimrodel assured.

    “Do you think they will join us?”

    “I hope so. I like those boys. Oh!”

    Bard turned to Nimrodel just in time to see her bump into somebody. The two women sprawled to the ground in a tumble of baskets and skirts, coughing and giggling.

    “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?” Nimrodel asked, getting to her feet and helping the other woman up as well.

    “Yes, thank you.” Bard noticed at once that the woman was very beautiful. She had rich, dark skin and black tendrils of hair that encircled her head like a soft halo. Ordinarily, she might not have been considered attractive, but she was tall and her eyes were such a kind, honeyed brown it was a wonder Bard did not lose himself in them.

    He could not say the same for Nimrodel, however. She was staring at the woman, as though transfixed by her beauty.

    “Mithrellas! Over here!”

    Celebrían was calling her over. Breaking eye contact with Nimrodel, she hurried back to a stall where Celebrían was selecting oranges, chatting to the grocer good-naturedly.

    “ _That’s_ Mithrellas?” Nimrodel gasped, brushing down her skirts in exasperation.

    “She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Bard flashed a coy grin.

    “Oh, dont tease, Bard. I just… she’s so tall and… oh…”

    Nimrodel silenced herself before she said anymore. Blushing furiously, she hitched up her skirts and marched on up the hill, Bard hot on her heels and laughing.

    They went back to the cool shade of Elrond’s house, Nimrodel still flustered and smoothing back her frizzy hair whenever she caught sight of her reflection in a window or mirror. Bard left her to her ponderings of Mithrellas and went to find Thranduil.

    He was in the study with Elrond, and they were still arguing – shouting, in fact – so Bard decided it was best to leave them to it.

    As he went back down the stairs, he heard footsteps thundering in from the courtyard. Elrond’s sons, Elladan and Elrohir, burst in from outside and collided with Bard.

    “Whoa! Sorry, sir!” They side-stepped Bard and disappeared into a room to the side of the foyer.

    Clattering after them came a young girl, her wild eyes alight with mischief. She was Arwen. Bard had only seen her wandering the house a couple of times during his stay. She was very small and her hair seemed to sweep the ground. She hesitated when she saw Bard, blinking up at him nervously.

    “They went through there,” Bard whispered, pointing to the door the twins had disappeared behind.

    Arwen smiled dazzlingly in appreciation and hurried off to find her brothers.

    Bard heard a laugh behind him and straightened up, turning around to see Thranduil whisking down from the stairs. His bickering with Elrond was evidently over.

    “Any luck?” Bard asked.

    “Not yet, but I think he is coming around.”

    “I spoke with Orophin today. No, Rúmil, and his older brother. I don’t think he likes me very much.”

    “Haldir is pig-headed because it suits him to be, but he is honest and loyal.”

    “Rúmil and Orophin wish to join you.”

    “Then I daresay we can include Haldir in our company too, which is just as well because he is a superb Helmsman.”

    “I have not been able to talk to anyone else…” said Bard, chewing his lip.

    Thranduil sighed. “It doesn’t matter right now. Come on, let’s go for a swim.”

    “Alright,” said Bard, agreeing that a swim might help ease the stress that was building in his chest, clamouring like a frightened beast.

    He and Thranduil took towels down to the shoreline. They undressed to only their breeches and then climbed a mountain path to a low cliff. Here, Thranduil promptly launched himself off the edge, diving into the clear water below.

    Bard peered down, his heart seizing painfully until he saw Thranduil emerge from the water, his silver hair shining in the sun.

    “Jump!” he called, waving an arm.

    It wasn’t a high or particularly perilous jump, but Bard wasn’t one for daredevilry. He would have been much happier wading in the shallows and trying to catch small fish. But Thranduil’s grin beckoned him down and, starting off at a run, Bard flung himself off the cliff and was submerged in a world of crystal waters.

    It was very pleasant swimming in the ocean in the hot sun. Bard opened his eyes underwater and watched tropical fish dart between corals and rocks. Thranduil swam almost mile-long laps, sharing salty, wet kisses with Bard every time he came back. He seemed restless, and Bard lost count of Thranduil’s laps after the sixth kiss because Thranduil didn’t seem inclined to stop.

    But they were soon joined by more people. From the edge of the cliff came the entire crew except Galion, who sat on the sand by the shore and watched as five pirates plummeted into the water, shrieking and whooping with delight.

    Glorfindel immediately swam for Thranduil and a scuffle broke out between them as they both struggled to get the other’s head under the water, splashing madly like caught fish and laughing. Feren went under to grab people’s legs and drag them below the surface, and this got him a kick in the face from Nimrodel. After that, they played a game of shoulder wars. Bard was coerced onto Thranduil’s shoulders and tried to push Lethuin from Feren’s. He lost, but it was humbly agreed that the fight was well-matched and, after a few more games, the crew returned to the beach.

    They basked in the sun to dry. Thranduil’s hair was indistinguishable from the sand and his fingers found Bard’s, playing and prying and caressing.

    Bard missed the open sea. Port made him queasy and jaded and very much like a trapped bird in a cage. But lying there on the hot sand in Imladris, his heart soared. He looked over at Thranduil and Thranduil's eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply and Bard felt that he could stay there forever and be perfectly happy.


	9. Recruitment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically a lot of fruitless angst and arguing and my subtle 21 pirates joke (it's technically 22, but even more technically than that it's 21 + bilbo so it's 21 pirates i'll see myself out)

Their stay in Imladris was extended purely by the reason that Bard and Thranduil spent so much of their free time down on the beach, joined often by the crew, and sometimes others as well. They lounged or sparred in the sun and waded the shallows during the day, and then they fell into the tide at night, their shouts clinging to the mountainside when they jumped off the cliff. It was easier this way; to swim and be happy and not fret constantly over the daring task ahead of them.

    Bard also became well-acquainted with Elrond’s men in this instance, and he found that nearly all of them were quite eager to accompany Thranduil in his quest, so there was really no convincing to be done on his part, for even Haldir came around after his brothers were finished heckling him. The only two who voiced any real reluctance were Lindir and Erestor, both of whom were close confidants of Elrond and more apart from the company than even Bard.

    “They are the only two who will not sail unless Elrond does,” said Galion to Bard one day as they and the others basked in the shade of a tree near the mountains, digging their feet into the dirty sand. “They both detest sailing; Lindir more so because he is a doctor and will probably throw himself overboard at the first sign of germs.”

    “But if he is a doctor, won’t he be very useful to the crew?” Bard said.

    “Well, yes of course, but you have to actually get him on the ship first. We pirates aren’t the cleanest bunch, I’ll admit, so the poor man will have his hands full trying to keep us healthy.”

    “I do not believe that. You and the rest of the crew are very clean.”

    “We try our best to be so, but the journey we are about to undergo could take months, or even years. I don't see us making hygiene our first priority during that time.”

    Bard swallowed thickly, thinking of scurvy and mania and lockjaw. Galion evidently sensed these fears and offered him a reassuring smile, his yellow eyes glinting in a paring of sunlight.

    “Don’t worry yourself too much. The worst we have been subjected to is Delirium.”

    “We?” piped up Nimrodel. “ _You_ were the only one who had hallucinations! The rest of us know how much rum is too much.”

    Galion scowled. “Don’t try and convince me that mermaid wasn’t real, Nimrodel!”

    “Whether she was or wasn’t, mermaid’s aren’t the size of whales!”

    While Galion and Nimrodel bickered, Bard got up to sit with Thranduil, who was talking to Galdor and Amroth. Elros was also there, but he had fallen asleep against the tree with his face under a map.

    “I’d like to take a look at your ship. I’m sure it is in need of repair,” Amroth was saying.

    “Desperately,” said Thranduil with a nod. “I’ve been asking around for someone to look at it, but everyone is busy with the town reconstruction.”

    Amroth snorted. “No they aren’t. They just don’t want to work on a ship.”

    “But you will?”

    “Of course. I love it.”

    “Will you sail with us?” Thranduil asked hopefully.

    “I’m thinking about it. I didn’t go last time and I was sorry for it. Wretched business it was, but I still wish I had been there,” Amroth assured.

    Bard sidled up next to Thranduil, crossing his legs in the sand. Thranduil did not look at Bard, but his body turned slightly towards him, his fingers twitching, as if wanting to hold Bard’s hand.

    “What do _you_ think about all this, Bard?” said Galdor.

    “Think about what?”

    “About your Captain’s _journey;_ about his _nonsense_.”

    “It’s not nonsense,” said Thranduil hotly.

    “I think the gems are important,” said Bard, coming immediately to Thranduil’s defence. “They will do a great deal of good.”

    Thranduil smiled at him.

    “You are lingering here a _while_ for something that is _so_ important,” Galdor said in his sing song sarcastic voice.

    “If we had more crew, we would have left by now,” Thranduil snapped.

    “Christ, Galdor, you’re so annoying,” Elros mumbled from behind the map. He pulled it off his face, blinking blearily in the light. “If you want Thranduil to leave, you’ll have to go with him.”

    “ _I’m_ not going on this _ludicrous_ voyage,” said Galdor indignantly.

    “Shame. We could use your cooking skills,” Elros said.

    “You’re a cook?” said Bard.

    “ _Yes_. But I won’t waste my talent on _pirates_.”

    “Well I’m sure Celebrían will appreciate your help in the tavern, because there will be no one else to cook for once we all leave,” said Elros with a smirk.  

    “Speaking of food, I’m famished. Let’s go get something to eat,” said Amroth, getting to his feet and dusting off his breeches. “Nimrodel, will you join us?”

    Nimrodel – who had been undergoing some recruitment of her own in the form of flirting with Mithrellas – gave a start and looked around in bewilderment.

    “Food,” Thranduil told her, grinning. “Hungry?”

    “Yes!” And she grabbed Mithrellas by the hand so they could walk together.

    Mithrellas was uncovered to be a quiet young thing. She was the orphaned daughter of a blacksmith, taken in by Celebrían as a tavern girl. She seemed enchanted and perturbed by Nimrodel, who was reckless and loud and tried to coerce Mithrellas into all sorts of wild notions, telling her stories of sea monsters and Sirens. Bard wondered if Nimrodel would indeed ask Mithrellas to join them on their voyage, and whether or not Mithrellas would go. She didn’t seem the type for piracy; she was too fragile and ladylike, with hands made to pour drinks, not rig sails.

    Thranduil seemed to disapprove of Nimrodel’s choice of potential crewmember, but not for the reason Bard initially thought. As they walked up to Elrond’s house, he overheard them arguing in whispers.

    “I thought we were here to recruit people,” Nimrodel hissed.

    “That girl is not a pirate, Nimrodel,” Thranduil said.

    “She’s stronger than she looks.”

    “It is not her physical aptitude I’m concerned with. You know the danger we are getting into – you understand the risk. What if she gets hurt, or killed? You like her, but what’s the use in that if she faces the consequences of your affections?”

    “I’ll be there to protect her,” Nimrodel insisted, her eyes sparkling with defiance.

    “And what if there comes a time when you aren’t? Nimrodel, I am saying this for your sake as well. Don’t be foolish with your heart.”

    “That’s a bit rich coming from you! What about Bard? You are asking the very same of him, and yourself! You could have left him on that Navy ship and saved him from your noble inclinations, yet you are dragging him along in the wake of them. What if _he_ doesn’t make it?”

    Thranduil did not reply to this. His eyes met Bard’s from across the group of people they walked with and Bard quickly turned his attention to Galion, wishing he had not eavesdropped.

    He had never thought about leaving the company, not when he now knew how much was at stake. True, there was little he could do to assist them, and they would manage well enough without him, but he didn’t believe it possible to stay behind while Thranduil and his crew sailed away to danger. Bard wouldn’t be able to live with himself not knowing if Thranduil was all right, or even alive. He had to go; he had to be there with him. He wanted to help.

    Bard glanced at Mithrellas, wondering if she felt the same. She didn’t show particular love for Nimrodel, having not the temperament for sharing her feelings, but would she feel hopeless if Nimrodel sailed without her? Would she too wish she had gone in spite of the risk?

   

    Bard retired to the library after he ate, leaving Thranduil to his self-proclaimed silence. He met Bilbo there, writing a letter. Bilbo had been mostly absent from the rest of the crew during their stay, finding more pleasure in the library and in solitary walks through the town. When he did eat or sit with the others, he spoke predominately to Elrond and Celebrían, and so he was entirely polarized from the other pirates.

    He seemed to like Bard, though. When he had finished writing his letter, he joined him on the sofa. Bard flicked aimlessly through a book. He wasn’t a very good reader, but enjoyed the company of books all the same.

    “I never expected to sail again,” said Bilbo.

    “You must be furious with us for bringing you,” said Bard.

    “Not as much as I should be. I have been too long confined to the Shire and its simplicity. I don’t like sailing as much as you pirates do, but I do enjoy a good adventure.”

    “Do you think the cause is just?” Bard asked.

    “I don’t really know. I imagine my home will be very different if things go the way Thranduil want them to, but perhaps I will find a new home,” Bilbo said, looking down at the letter in his hands. The ink was dry, so he folded it.

    “How do we know you’re not informing the King of our location?” Bard wondered.

    “Elrond reads them before they are sent. It prevents me from writing much of what I would like to say, but I suppose all that can wait until later.”

    “Who are you writing to?”

    Bilbo blushed. “No one important,” he said, and he got up from the sofa. Bard wondered if Bilbo knew what it felt like to leave someone behind.

    “Are you really going to go along with this? I mean… there is a sea serpent at the end of it.”

    Bard didn’t need to think about his response. “I have wasted enough time serving the wrong monarch. I want to do some good in the world.”

    “You know you won’t live through this,” Bilbo said.

    “I may.”

    Shaking his head, Bilbo left the library to have his letter sent. Bard slumped back on the seat, gripping the book in his hands very tightly. He was certain of his decision, he knew that. There was no going back on his word, and there was no turning away from Thranduil. Whether they survived this or not, at least Bard would have a few more months at sea with someone he loved.

    But it seemed Nimrodel’s damage had been done. When Bard went to bed that night, he found Thranduil already there, looking solemn.

    “No, we are not doing this,” Bard said at once, crossing his arms.

    Thranduil stood up in an attempt to dominant the conversation before Bard could, but Bard wasn’t having it. He wasn’t going to let Thranduil mollycoddle him.

    “Elrond has agreed to join us. I will have more than enough crew –”

    “I’m not staying behind! You pulled me onto that ship and you’ll have to kill me to stop me from boarding it again.”

    “You’re such a child!” Thranduil burst out. “You have no idea –”

    “And you do?” Bard cut in again. “Do you have this journey planned to the finest detail? Because if you do, then I must have no cause to worry about you, so I can happily stay behind.”

    “Bard, stop it. I will not risk your life… I will not lose anyone else.” Thranduil looked quite distressed. He wrung his hands and ran them shakily through his hair.

    “How do think it would make me feel to stay behind? I might survive, but what would be the point if you didn’t? What would be the point in living if you did not come back?”

    “Don’t act like I’m all you’ve got,” Thranduil snarled.

    “But you are! I haven’t got a family back home, and everyone I care about here will be going with you.”

    “I told you that there are many prospects to be had in Imladris. You can join a different crew, or stay on land and start a family. You can do whatever you want.”

    “I want to go with you,” Bard said fiercely.

    Thranduil let out a frustrated cry. “I never should have let this happen! I never should have pulled you aboard my ship!”

    Bard grabbed Thranduil by the wrists to steady him, catching his eye and holding the gaze. “I am glad you have led me into this. Whether or not my life is the price for it, I am glad I met you, and I would give my life if it meant we could be together for just a moment.”

    Thranduil finally submitted, dropping heavily onto the bed. “I will never forgive myself if you get hurt.”

    Bard sat down beside him, entwining their fingers and lifting them to his mouth to kiss. “If getting hurt means you are all right, then I am all the better for it.”

    “But if you die…”

    “Then we can both die and be done with this foolishness,” said Bard. “Besides, we may survive.”

    “We may.”

    “It’s just a dragon; how bad could it possibly be?”

    At this, Thranduil gave a shaky laugh and fell back onto the bed, his hair spilling out in sashes of silk. Bard climbed on top of him, enveloping him in kisses, caressing his neck and shoulders and wandering his hands beneath his shirt. Bard wished it could be only this; him and Thranduil and the pulsating heat of summer between their bodies.  

    “You will have me undone with your foolishness,” Thranduil murmured into Bard’s lips.

    “I can have you undone in other ways,” Bard parried.

    Thranduil hummed. “Do your worst, then, or we’ll see how good of a powder monkey you are.”

    “You wouldn’t make me a powder monkey,” Bard pouted.

    “I just might if you disappoint me.”

    “When have I ever…?”

   

    Preparing to sail took more preparation than Bard ever could have expected. He spent the entirety of the following morning running up and down the hill through the town to the ship, packing it with supplies, weapons and gunpowder, hanging more bunks, finding blankets, putting away spare clothes, heaving barrels of water, rum, and wine, and all the while listening to everyone complain about this being left to the last minute.

    Thranduil assigned positions and duties to his new crewmembers and gathered books, maps and papers from the library with Elros and Elrond. He was very irritated at how much there was still left to do, which was not helped by the fact that Bard had not been gentle with him that night.

    “He’s limping. What did you do to him, Bard?” said Glorfindel with a grin as he and Bard picked up Bilbo’s chest to take to the ship.

    “I didn’t think he was serious when he said we were leaving today. We’ve been here for over two weeks, surely he could have waited one more day,” Bard said.

    “It’s too bad we’re leaving. I like it here, and I have a feeling I won’t like it where we’re going,” Glorfindel said.

    “What gave you that idea?” Bard quipped, smirking.

    At the ship, they found Nimrodel on the docks with Mithrellas, who was giving the _Eryn_ _Lasgalen_ a very uneasy stare.

    “Please come with us,” Nimrodel implored her. “Or I will stay here with you.”

    “You’ll do no such thing. You swore an oath,” Glorfindel said when he and Bard reached them.

    “To hell with the oath!” said Nimrodel, clutching Mithrellas’ arm.

    Mithrellas flushed a deep crimson as Glorfindel glared at Nimrodel.

    “You can’t sacrifice this voyage for a girl!” he said.

    “Don’t project your bitter feelings about love onto me, Glorfindel. You once said you’d give up anything for Ecthelion!”

    Bard stumbled as Glorfindel dropped his side of the chest onto the docks.

    “And then he died!” he shrieked. “Just like she’s going to die, so let her stay behind and be done with you before you get her killed.”

    “I am _not_ staying behind!” Mithrellas exclaimed suddenly, stepping in front of Nimrodel. “I’ve made my choice, and how dare you suggest I cannot handle myself! I will not be subjected to your scepticisms like I’m nothing more than a petulant child. I will go where Nimrodel goes and I’ll thank you to not to judge me before you know me.”

    Glorfindel did not retort back. He grabbed the chest off the docks and tugged Bard up the plank by it to the ship, fuming.

    “Nimrodel’s right,” said Bard tentatively as they put the chest in Thranduil’s cabin. “I know you loved Ecthelion, but you can’t forsake everyone else’s affections because of it.”

    Glorfindel rounded on Bard, his eyes blazing. “And what would you know? You’re too young to understand.”

    “Maybe I am,” Bard seethed, tired of being reminded of his youth. “But that doesn’t mean my opinion can’t be valued. Grieve as you will, Glorfindel, but you might be kinder if you respected the hearts of others.”

    Bard stormed out of the cabin and went to find Thranduil to see what else he could do to help. He had always gotten along with Glorfindel very well, finding him charming and exuberant, but there were some things Bard could not ignore, and Glorfindel’s self-pity was one of those things. Bard was sympathetic, of course, but it wasn’t fair of Glorfindel to bring down the entire crew with his sorrow.

    Tempers and temperatures were high that afternoon. Thranduil was annoyed to hear that his crew were already quarrelling with each other and he was not impressed to see Mithrellas among them when he boarded his ship at last. Nimrodel was helping her into a new coat. Thranduil looked behind him at Bard and his expression softened. These were the sacrifices one made, and they all knew that.

    It was pandemonium on the _Eryn Lasgalen_. Used to there being only eight people on board, Bard felt claustrophobic at the sight of twenty-one. The ship, though still exceptionally big, now felt small and cramped as people ran across the deck and up and down from the hold, crying out and jostling each other. Elladan and Elrohir dashed downstairs, carrying a couple of lutes and other instruments, while their father kissed Celebrían and Arwen goodbye on the docks. Tauriel, in breeches and a billowing golden shirt, was climbing the mast to the crow’s nest, while Lethuin and Feren secured new cannons to their positions. Amroth was examining every inch of the ship, examining his own handiwork, and Haldir was up on the helm with Thranduil and Galion, talking urgently.

    Bard took a breath and went to the quarterdeck, his heart hammering. The voyage felt so real all of a sudden.

    “The wheel is a little faulty when you turn right so make sure you turn a bit harder than you normally would,” Thranduil said to Haldir.

    “Are we sailing soon?” Bard asked.

    “Yes, I just need to speak to my – er – crew.” Thranduil also seemed a little overwhelmed by the amount of people on his ship.

    Galion, Haldir and Bard all hurried down to the main deck just as Elrond joined the throng, his eyes blotchy. Bard gave him a sympathetic smile, and waved down to Celebrían and Arwen on the docks, both of whom were crying.

    “Won’t they come with us? I thought Celebrían loved the sea,” Bard said to Elrond.

    “She does, but she won’t subject Arwen to its perils. It is safer if they stay behind.”

    Bard felt his heart twist uncomfortably in his chest. So much talk of staying behind and refusing to do so and there was Celebrían, willing to part with her husband for the sake of only one of her children. But Bard supposed it was different. The fates of children were more important than the fates of lovers and friends.

    Bard turned his attention to Thranduil, who stood on the quarterdeck, waiting to address his crew as they slowly dimmed into a respectful silence.

    “I won’t give you a heartfelt speech,” he said, clearing his throat. “I will only convey my honest gratitude at your willingness and determination to sail with me. We’re about to make history, so keep your eyes on that horizon.”

    “Do you not object to Thranduil being Captain? I would have expected you to take on the role,” Bard said to Elrond.

    “I am still reluctant to go on this voyage at all, much less lead it. No, it is Thranduil’s quest and Thranduil’s ship; I will not usurp him.”

    “Will you be First Mate, then?” Bard wondered.

    Elrond gave him a quizzical look. “I thought you were First Mate,” he said.

    Bard’s mouth fell open. “What? Thranduil never said…”

    He gazed up to his Captain. Thranduil was putting his hat on, shielding his eyes from the sun and looking more than ever like the pirate Bard knew him to be. It was hard to imagine he was once a prince before all of this came together, and harder still to think he might make Bard his First Mate.

    Bard ran back up to the quarterdeck.

    “Elrond has just informed me that I am First Mate,” he said peevishly.

    “Did I not tell you? Oh… well, you are. Is that alright?”

    Bard frowned. “But these men won’t listen to me. I’m not a pirate.”

    Thranduil laughed. “After all this time, you still insist you aren’t one of us.”

    “That’s… not what I meant,” Bard mumbled.

    “I know what you meant. These men – and women – will do exactly as I say, and if I say they are to take orders from you, they will. You just have to rise to the occasion,” Thranduil said, clapping a hand on Bard’s shoulder. Then, he furrowed his brow, studying Bard. “We ought to get you a hat.”

    “I’m not wearing something as ridiculous as that,” said Bard at once, flicking Thranduil’s.

    “I’ll find you one.”

    They weighed anchor and set sail. From the quarterdeck, Bard watched Imladris creep into the distance, becoming nothing more than a secluded mountain. He was not alone in his sentimentality. Most of the crew stopped what they were doing to look upon their home for what could be the last time.

    “I will miss it,” said Tauriel, climbing up the stairs to Bard. She was holding something white and fuzzy in her arms, and it squirmed. It was the cat Bard had seen roaming Elrond’s house.

    “He will not like the open sea,” Bard said, scratching the cat behind an ear.

    “He might. He has always liked water,” Tauriel said, setting the cat on its feet. It swayed on the spot momentarily, and then tottered off to explore.

    “I did not expect you to come with us.”

    Tauriel shrugged. “I wasn’t sure I would have the courage to leave, but it is time. The sea has called me for long enough.”

    The sun beat down on Bard’s neck as they sailed further and further from Imladris. He sat with Thranduil, Elrond and Elros as they poured over a map on the table.

    “I still say we ought to make a stop in Lothlorien,” said Elrond, pointing to a large island on the border between Eriador and Rhovanion. “There is much Lady Galadriel could tell us of this sea serpent.”

    “Must we?” Thranduil moaned.

    “I know you don’t like her, Thranduil, but she’s wise... and on the way,” Elrond insisted.

    “Her infuriating riddles cost too much.”

    “She owes me a favour.”

    “I don’t think a favour is going to cut it.”

    “Who is this Lady Galadriel?” Bard asked.

    “She’s Elrond’s crackpot mother-in-law,” said Thranduil.

    “If you keep speaking against her like that, she won’t help us at all,” Elrond admonished angrily before turning to Bard. “Galadriel is a soothsayer. She’s… odd, I’ll admit, but she's very powerful and clever.”

    “A soothsayer? Can she predict the future?” said Bard.

    “Not exactly,” Elros cut in. “Foretelling the future is an imprecise art, but she has a way of knowing what will come to pass.”

    “If you can work out what she’s even telling you,” added Thranduil.

    “Amroth knows Galadriel well, so perhaps he can decipher her waffling,” Elros concluded.

   

    Despite how crowded the ship felt, Bard was quite pleased to no longer have much work to do. He missed the feeling of physically aiding the ship in its proper course, but also did not envy the other pirates when they scurried around the deck at Thranduil’s (or Bard’s) orders.

    The first night on the ship was tense and quiet. Nobody felt like sitting around and drinking, so they all retired early to their bunks. Bard headed towards the hold, looking forward to some much-needed rest, when Thranduil called him back.

    “Where are you going?” he asked.

    “To… to my bunk,” said Bard, stifling a yawn.

    Thranduil shook his head, smiling. “Come on, powder monkey.”

    He took Bard’s hand and they went into the cabin together, collapsing into the soft bed and finding each other’s lips in the dark until they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a super quick update, I know, but I couldn't help myself. And I know what you're thinking about Galadriel, but she'll be totally different from Tia Dalma from POTC. It's admittedly really hard not to make references when those three (four) films are all you really have for decent pirate-related references. Also, I mapped out the upcoming journey, and Lothlorien is quite literally on the way so it was begging to be included. Anyway, I hope you liked this chapter. I really enjoyed writing it. Thank you for reading and commenting!


	10. Fog and Mirrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew. this chapter was actually a lot more daunting than i had anticipated. i read about how Galadriel was a bit of a party girl back in the day (back in the millennium?) and I kind of wanted to write my own take on that in this world, where she's a wild forest lady with a twisted sense of humour at the worst of times. she was fun to write and imagine, in any case.

It was a relief to be at sea again; to revel in the open water and the salty breeze whipping through hair and shirts and sails. Bard finally felt _free_ again. The water lapping at the hull felt like home and the call of the gulls overhead was music.

    The novelty of being First Mate wore off after the first couple of days. Bard soon returned to trimming sails and taking night shifts with the rest of the crew, though he didn’t have to catch rats anymore, and assigned that task to some of the younger members. If he wanted to rest, he did, and often Thranduil would go with him, sneaking off to the cabin when no one was looking. Glorfindel often made jokes that they were too enamoured with one another for their own good, but little did the Quartermaster know that Bard and Thranduil often disappeared only to share a bottle of rum and fall asleep in the quiet confinements of the bed.

    What Bard liked most was being with other people. Once he got used to inescapably being among so many others, he rather enjoyed having the company and conversation. Each pirate had fascinating stories and theories to share with him, and they were repeated and performed between bouts of sparring and duties. And at night, when everyone was tired and warm with rum around the crackling fire, they would remind each other why they were there, and what they were fighting for.

    “What will happen to the rest of the treasure if we kill the serpent?” said Elrohir, wiggling a fishbone through the air as though it were a toy.

    “Can we keep it?” said Elladan excitedly. Bard was finally able to tell them apart as Elladan had smartly cut his hair shorter than Elrohir’s.

    “I wouldn’t trust treasure that’s been guarded by a dragon for quite so long,” Glorfindel told them. “They tend to plague it with their own greed and sick hunger.”

    “You mean to say the beast has corrupted it?” said Bard.

    “There are lots of rumours that circulate dragon plunder – or, in our case, leviathan plunder – but whether we kill it or not, I don’t think we ought to take more than the gems,” Elrond affirmed, tugging a bottle of rum out of Elladan’s grip. “Shouldn’t you two be in bed?”

    “Leave them be, Elrond,” said Elros, taking the rum from his brother to drink it for himself. “They’re part of the crew, so they can choose their own bed time. Can’t you play some music for us, lads?”

    Elladan and Elrohir were fine musicians and they leapt immediately to the opportunity to play their lutes. Though tired and sore from climbing the masts and scrubbing the deck, some of the pirates got to their feet and danced in circles, encouraged by claps and stamps of feet. Many broke into song, and Amroth played a flute. Nimrodel pulled Bard to his feet so that he could dance with her, and even Thranduil emerged from his cabin, leaning against the frame to watch the display. The fire sparked and flamed and rose up into the black sky and no more was heard of dragons that night.

    It was a long time before Bard finally admitted defeat and politely turned down Tauriel’s plea for another dance. He slunk across the deck to the Captain’s cabin where Thranduil was still watching from the shadows, a glint of mirth in his eyes.

    "Seeing you smile like that makes me glad you came with us,” he said.

    Bard was thankful for the darkness, or Thranduil would have laughed at how furiously he blushed.

    “Why didn’t you join us?”

    “I’m not one for dancing,” Thranduil said.

    “Is there anything you like to do?” Bard said, half teasing.

    Thranduil poked him in the ribs. “You. Though, I enjoy swimming as well.”

    They entered the cabin together, shutting the doors quietly and muffling the noise of the other pirates. Inside was dimly lit with candles. Maps and papers were sprawled on the table by the windows, accompanied by an almost empty bottle of wine. Thranduil poured the last of it into two goblets, handing one to Bard.

    “What about when you lived in the palace?” Bard said, taking the goblet. “Did you have any hobbies?”

    Thranduil laughed shortly. “If ordering servants around can be considered a hobby…” He paused to take a sip of wine and Bard’s eyes lingered on the red stain it left on his lips. “I liked reading. I used to spend hours in the library, reading about people having adventures, and wondering if I would one day have my own. I thought I would never find the courage to leave my home.”

    “But you did.”

    “Yes, but it hasn’t quite been the adventure I imagined.”

    Bard closed the gap between him and Thranduil. Their boots touched on the dark floor, the leather rubbing and pinching their toes. Thranduil smiled and faced Bard, the remnants of wine still on his lips. Bard stood on tip-toe and kissed it away, and thought it tasted sweeter for it.

    “Surely some of it lives up to your expectations,” he said.

    Thranduil grinned against Bard’s mouth. “Some of it,” he murmured.

    “When all this is over, we can have a proper adventure.”

    Thranduil drew back, his expression falling. Bard knew what he was thinking; there was little to no chance that they would both be alive to share the relief that the end would bring, but Bard was not about to give up hope. There were many months still ahead of them, and everything could change between now and then.

    But Thranduil did not see it that way. His service was pledged to his Queen, and only she would see the victory at the journey’s end. He had accepted his fate as a pirate and as a Captain.

 

    The crossing to Lothlorien took two weeks. It might have been less, but a violent storm blew them so far east they came unnervingly close to Greenwood’s shores. It had been a wet, exhausting night, and it put the crew in low spirits until Lothlorien came into view on the horizon, promising fresh water and steady ground. It was a cascade of green in the middle of a crystal blue ocean, rising in tumbling mountains and hungry forests.

    “It is good to look upon my home once again,” Haldir said when Meludir declared land ahoy from the crow’s nest.

    “This is your home?” Bard said in astonishment.

    Haldir nodded. “One of them. I have travelled too much to call only one place home, but it is like that for many of us.”

    “Who else is from Lothlorien?”

    “My brothers, of course, and Amroth, who was meant to rule it, and Nimrodel.”

    “Nimrodel is from Lothlorien? But didn’t she serve Greenwood’s Queen before she became a pirate?” said Bard, intrigued.

    “She does not speak of her time in Lothlorien. Amroth’s father, Amdír, is a poor ruler – not a tyrant like Oropher, but narrow-minded and greedy – and he plagues the country with his misery and lust for power. When he joined forces with Oropher, Nimrodel stowed away on a ship and sailed to Greenwood in hope of better prospects. Amroth befriended her after discovering her below deck and later found her a position in the Queen’s household to keep her safe.”

    “So Amroth is a Prince like Thranduil? And he sacrificed so much for Nimrodel…”

    Haldir smiled lightly. “He loves her, but she cannot bring herself to return his affections. I thought, after all these years, he would have let it go, but you see the way he looks at her.”

    Bard cast his gaze down to the main deck where Nimrodel was sifting gunpowder. She paused to wipe sweat from her brow, blinking up at the scorching heat of the sun. Amroth approached her, holding out a water skin and smiling.

    “He is too old for her,” Haldir remarked.

    “Why did he leave Lothlorien?” Bard inquired.

    “For much the same reason Captain Thranduil left Greenwood; in pursuit of a greater purpose.”

    “And you?”

    “I am sure you have heard of Lady Celebrían’s past inclinations towards piracy? I knew her when I was a boy, and we sailed together until she met Elrond, and I went with him to help Thranduil on the voyage to Erebor. The cost of the journey was great, however, and I admit I am still deeply troubled by it, for we lost so many lives. When we returned to Imladris, we stopped in Lothlorien to retrieve my brothers as I could no longer bear to be parted from them.”

    “There is so much I don’t know about these men and women,” said Bard sullenly. “You all share so much history with one another, but I stand alone among you.”

    “You shouldn’t doubt your position here, nor be so quick to form a wedge between you and the others. The past is the past, and it is the present with which we must concern ourselves. The perils we face in the future will be unifying, don’t you worry about that.”

    Haldir walked away, leaving Bard to his musings. He supposed Haldir was right; he couldn’t polarize himself from the crew just because he came from a different past. Everyone had a unique story to tell, and this time Bard could be a part of it, even if he didn't live to recount it.

   

    It was another day after its sighting before they neared Lothlorien. Miles off the coast and hidden in the shadow of a large mountain, they weighed anchor.

    “We will take the longboats to shore,” Thranduil announced from the helm. He was wearing a fresh set of clothes and had polished his boots. “Amroth, Elrond, Elros, Bard, Glorfindel, Haldir and Nimrodel are coming with me. The rest of you are to stay behind and wait until we return.”

    There was a cry of outrage from the crew who were not going. Thranduil sighed, running a hand over his face as he put on his hat. “We cannot draw attention to ourselves by overwhelming the city. If Lord Amdír knows we’re here, he’ll have us all hanged.”

    Thranduil marched down to the deck as two longboats were lowered to the water. Tauriel hurried forward, taking his coat sleeve.

    “Please let me come with you,” she beseeched. “I want to see Lothlorien.”

    “Tauriel, I can’t pick and choose who stays and who goes. If you go, it won’t be fair to the others,” Thranduil told her.

    “Please?”

    It seemed he could not deny her. Thranduil allowed Tauriel to climb down to the longboats ahead of him. Putting Galion in charge, he clambered into the second boat with Bard. Elros and Elrond rowed one, and Haldir and Amroth rowed the other. It was bitterly cold on the waves as the sun set and dusk settled over the sea, creating a mist around them. Lothlorien wasn’t much further south from Imladris, but it still made all the difference to the weather.

    Arriving on the shore, Lothlorien stood tall and proud on the banks of the bay they entered. Hiding the longboats under fallen branches and shrubs, the small company of pirates picked their way through the dense forest that breathed and shuddered in a constant fog.

    “Feeling at home?” Nimrodel joked to Amroth and Haldir as she stepped over a fallen tree. Neither of them laughed.

    “Lady Galadriel lives somewhere off this bay,” Elrond said.

    “How do you know where we’re going?” Thranduil said, pushing aside a branch irritably.

    “I don’t. But when you see stars in the trees, that’s when you know she’s nearby.”

    “Stars in the trees? Is she a faerie?” Tauriel asked quietly.

    Elros chuckled. “A nymph or sprite is closer to the correct term.”

    “But didn’t you say she’s Celebrían’s mother?” said Bard.

    “It’s a complicated story,” said Elros.

    “One you don’t want to hear,” said Elrond.

    They continued their trek through the woods, keeping an eye out for anything resembling stars, but the trees remained dark and lifeless. Night fell and the fog thickened. Soon, it was impossible to tell where they were going, even with a lantern to light their way. Thranduil pulled out a compass to ensure they at least did not walk in circles.

    “She’s not usually this far in,” Elrond said, biting his lip. “We should circle back.”

    With a groan and a shuffle, they turned back the way they came, heading in a south-easterly direction. After almost an hour, they finally began to see tiny lights cropping up in the trees, clinging to the leaves and branches and encircling the trunks like garlands of starlight, for that was what they were. The starlight repelled the fog, and as they grew in quantity, it dispersed and the way became clear again.

    The trees rustled, though there was no wind. Bard cast his gaze up, blinking at the white lights that crept and floated in the trees. He saw the blur of a figure, and then nothing.

    “She’s here,” Elrond muttered.

    “Why doesn’t she show herself?” Tauriel whispered.

    “She’s probably gone to put some clothes on,” said Elros with a wink, and Tauriel blushed.

_“Tsk, tsk, Elros. You shouldn’t speak that way about a lady.”_

    The voice came from all around them, husky and purring. Bard stared wildly around him, trying to find the source of it. And there, high in an oak tree was a woman, crouched low on its branches like a cat. She was startlingly pale, as though a star herself, with long ropes of dreadlocks so blonde they were nearly white. Realising that she had been spotted, she climbed down the tree, her long nails cutting into the bark.

    “Hi, Galadriel,” Elros said when she dropped to the ground, landing on all fours. “Long time.”

    “Not long enough,” she said, flickering her eyes over him maliciously, as if he were a tasty mouse she might like to catch. She had one dark eye, and one completely white, evidently blinded by something.

    “Don’t stare,” Nimrodel whispered into Bard’s ear.

    Bard blinked several times, not realising he had been staring. At Nimrodel’s words, Galadriel turned her head to look at him, her almond-shaped eyes widening. She had similar features to Celebrían; plum-like lips and a wide, flat-set nose. But everything about her was white; her eyelashes and her eyebrows and her skin, which shimmered clean and soft though she reflected no light, but rather cast her own. She was wild and fearsome where Celebrían was swarthy and gentle. Twigs and leaves littered her hair and she wore a ragged dress, amass with dirt and fraying at the hems. She smiled toothily at Bard, and he was reminded more than ever of a large, predatory feline. It was hard to imagine this woman was even human, and Bard was beginning to think Elros hadn’t been jesting when he said she was some kind of nymph. Not only was she utterly bewildering to look upon, but she was strangely young; too young to have a daughter, and for her daughter to have children.

    Galadriel moved on from Bard, surveying her guests with a curious expression, her movements fluid and agile. She lingered on Tauriel for longer than anyone and, then, her eyes fell on Thranduil and she laughed.

    “Prince Thranduil… I never thought I’d see your face in these parts again. What do you need this time?”

    Thranduil scowled. “Help,” he said.

    “I’m not surprised. I hear you’re looking for a leviathan. Have you payment?”

    “I’m cashing in my favour,” Elrond cut in.

    Galadriel smiled all the wider. “But it’s not you who needs help, is it?”

    “I don’t have anything to give you, so you’ll have to take it,” said Thranduil tersely.

    “I’m not helping you until you’ve paid me.”

    “I don’t remember you being this stingy,” Elros objected.

    “And I don’t remember asking for your opinion,” Galadriel snapped at him before turning to Elrond. “These are hard times, son, and I see you haven’t brought my grandchildren ashore, though from the ocean I hear their talented fingers on strings.”

    “I didn’t want to subject them to your vulgarities,” Elrond told her tartly.

    Galadriel laughed. “Come on, then. We’ll see if we can arrange a bargain.”

    They followed her through the forest, the stars glittering in the trees and in the sky. Despite her feral nature, Galadriel moved as though she had wings on her feet, guiding her along an invisible path to a log cabin in a small clearing.

    Inside the cabin, it was dim and musty, smelling faintly of wood smoke and wet earth. While they all took seats around a table in the dark, Galadriel flittered about the room like a ghost, blowing into lanterns that didn’t have any candles. As she blew into them, they filled with starlight and engulfed the cabin, revealing a mass of trinkets, jars and oddities. Bard could see what looked like strips of human skin hanging from the rafters. He shuddered.

    “Thranduil,” Galadriel crooned, taking her place in a dirty, patched armchair. “You haven’t introduced me to your friends.”

    “I didn’t think I had to,” Thranduil said, taking off his hat and setting it on the table.

    “Courtesy dictates you tell me of these newcomers.” She gazed at Bard and Tauriel, both of whom shifted uncomfortably.

    “I’m just here for whatever you can tell me about this sea serpent.”

    Galadriel smirked, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hands to study Thranduil intensely. “Sea serpent indeed... You are different to when we last met.” She looked back at Bard, her white eye boring into him as though it could see perfectly fine.

    “What do you want in exchange for help?” Elrond interrupted, sensing everyone’s discomfort.

    “Your favour, for starters, and whatever gold you filthy rats have,” Galadriel said, sitting back and prodding the table in front of her. Her fingers and nails were a rich, earthy brown at the tips. It seemed all the pigment in her skin was concentrated there.

    “So long as you use it to buy a new dress,” Elros muttered, digging into his satchel for any gold.

    As they fished out whatever money they could find, Galadriel got up from her seat and disappeared behind a curtained door. She returned a moment later with an arm; not a fleshy, human arm, but a prosthetic limb made from steel, wood and leather straps. She presented it to Glorfindel, who jumped in his seat and gaped at her.

    “A gift,” she said.

    “Where did you even get this?” he asked, staring at it in amazement.      

    “You are not the first unfortunate soul to lose a hand.”

    Speechless at the incredible gift, Glorfindel immediately emptied an entire purse of gold onto the table before removing his shirt to fasten the prosthesis to his arm. Amroth helped him with the straps, which came across his chest from the right shoulder, forming into a leather plate over the left one. The hand itself was made entirely of steel, making it look dark and foreboding. The first thing Glorfindel did was arrange the fingers so that only the middle was left up. Tauriel laughed.

    Apparently pleased with her payment, Galadriel swept the money into a chest and stowed it on a shelf behind her, next to a jar of swirling blue ointment. She turned to her guests, her sharp teeth glinting in a smile.

    “I thought you would have given up on this task, Thranduil. The siege at Erebor dealt you quite a blow, didn’t it?” She said this very indelicately, but Thranduil did not flinch.

    “I don’t see why it surprises you,” he said coldly.

    “Your determination clouds your mind so that even I cannot See. You best be careful; such blind hatred will cloud your judgement also, and you will live just long enough to reap its terrible reward.”

    Thranduil glared at Galadriel. “I did not come here to be tormented. I want to know about this serpent.”

    Galadriel did not look impressed, but she submitted to the requests made of her. From a high shelf she retrieved a stone basin engraved with runes and intricate patterns. Setting it on the table, she went to the back room once again to fetch a large jar of what appear to be water. It was only half full, and she shook it vigorously, mixing its contents. The water swirled and became opaque and grey.

    “It’s a bit off,” she murmured.

    She bustled about her cabin, rummaging among other jars and bottles and phials, searching for something. Then, with a triumphant cry, she found a tiny bottle that held gem shards. They sparkled like little stars, permeating their own natural light.

    “Where did you get those?” Thranduil demanded.

    “Never you mind,” Galadriel scolded. She tipped the bottle upside-down and removed a single shard. It glowed sharp and beautiful between her dark fingers for a moment, and then she dropped it into the jar of grey water. At once, it was shrouded in light, and became a soft white colour, like watery milk.

    She emptied the substance into the basin and peered into it, her expression impassive. Bard couldn’t see anything but white water, but she was muttering to herself, shaking her head and prodding the water occasionally.

    “Well?” said Elrond nervously.

    “Your path is unclear. There are many months still to pass before you face the serpent Smaug. He has slept only two short years, but for two hundred before that, and he is hungry. A town sits upon a lake, and he consumes it. A mountain stands alone in the wake of his tyranny and he lays waste to it. All the treasure in the world is devoured by the sea. But much is uncertain; the mirror will not show me anything else.”

    Galadriel paused, prodding the water again. “One man can make all the difference, and he will. He understands the danger, but not how great the cost will be. Take the gold and take the jewels, but take not his heart; take not the heart borne in another’s body, lest he be lost to the waves in an act of despair that will forsake the future. He is falling, but not dying.”

    “A man?” said Amroth. “What man?”

    Galadriel looked up and she pointed a long, dark finger at Bard. “You are not supposed to be here,” she said.

    “What does that mean?” Thranduil said, his hand automatically reaching for Bard’s.

    “He was not intended to be among your company and he is disrupting the balance. I cannot See. You, Thranduil, should never have brought him upon your ship.”

    “I really don’t see what Bard has to do with all this.”

    “He has everything to do with it. Your fate on this quest is changed because he is here. ‘One Man can make all the difference;’ I believe those are your words, Captain,” Galadriel said.

    Thranduil paled and Bard felt his heart slowly tumble back into a steady rhythm, only now aware that it had been seizing and writhing in panic. How could he possibly change the future by being present? Was it his destiny to bring ruin upon Greenwood and Erebor, because those were the only things Galadriel could determine? Was he meant to ensure that Thranduil would fail? Perhaps he ought to leave now before he put everyone in more danger than was necessary.

    Galadriel sat down, still staring at Bard. Her expression seemed to soften, as though she knew what he was thinking. “Nothing is certain. Your role in this is still yet to be revealed. When the time comes, you will know what to do.”

    “I don’t want to risk the lives of my friends,” said Bard, speaking for the first time since they entered the cabin. His voice was hoarse and quiet.

    “Your fate is your own; there is nothing the mirror can tell you that you do not already know.”

    “I didn’t think I was that important,” Bard mumbled.

    “You don’t have to be. You can walk away from this,” Galadriel said.

    “And what would happen if I did?”

    Thranduil’s hands clenched on the table, his knuckles white. Bard ignored him and waited for Galadriel’s response.

    “If you leave, the future will play out as it is meant to,” she said.

    “And what is that?”

    “You would not like it if I told you.”

    “But if it’s meant to happen…”

    “Whatever you _choose_ is what is _meant_ to happen, Bard. If you stay or if you go, that choice dictates what will come to pass.”

    “So the fate of this quest is on his shoulders?” Amroth interrupted sternly. “But he’s just a kid!”

    “Do not be quick to judge the heart of a youth. There is much he can teach you, and himself.”

    Silence reigned in the cabin and everyone’s eyes were on Bard. He swallowed, suddenly wishing himself elsewhere.

    Thranduil cleared his throat, gesturing to the water, which was still swirling between them. “Is there anything you _can_ tell us?”

    Galadriel smiled humbly and watched the mirror again. She was quiet for a while, but eventually said; “You will cross paths with the King before your journey ends. He will not rest until you’ve been captured. But have heart; an ally approaches from the north, and she is the one who will set the wheels in motion on your way to face the dragon. But I See no more. The clouds are too thick; the future is too unclear.”

    “This is no help at all,” Elros grumbled, slumping forward on the table.

    For once, Galadriel did not gripe at him. Leaving the table, she opened a cupboard and drew out a stack of papers, dusting them and presenting them to Thranduil. “These are various accounts of interactions and sightings of Smaug. There is no more help I can give you.”

     “Does it explain a way to kill it?” asked Bard, looking over Thranduil’s shoulder at the papers, which were wrinkled and faded.

    “No. Many have tried and failed, but there is hope. You must not give up.”

    Surprised at her words of encouragement, the pirates stared at Galadriel. She shook her head. “I will lead you to the shore,” she said.

    The way back was quiet; nobody spoke a word. The trees thinned and the stars left the leaves, engulfing them once more in a chilly fog. The moon was high now, reflected in the water and lighting the way.

    Galadriel stood on the shoreline, shining brighter than any star as she watched them row back to the ship.

    The other pirates were eager for any good news she had brought, but the sad shakes of heads and disinclinations to speak felled their smiles. Rúmil and Orophin pestered their brother, but even Haldir could not submit to their pleas, and nor could Nimrodel share with Mithrellas, or Elrond with Erestor and Lindir. The ship was met with a gloomy silence and the pirates weighed anchor to drift further south with Haldir at the helm and Glorfindel on the night watch, for neither of them would be able to sleep.

    “Are you all right?” Bard asked Thranduil as he shut the cabin door behind them.

    Thranduil looked at Bard, his expression unreadable. “I do not understand what Galadriel said about you. You were not meant to be with us, yet you are and whatever happens hence _is_ meant to be. It doesn’t make sense.”

    “This whole damn voyage doesn’t make sense,” Bard growled. “I thought I knew what I was getting myself into, but this…”

    “You regret your decision.”

    It wasn’t a question, and it hurt.

    “Don’t do that. I just wish things were clearer, that’s all,” Bard said, rubbing his chest.

    “As do I,” said Thranduil quietly, setting the papers down on his desk. “I never thought bringing you would create such uncertainty.”

    “I still can’t believe it’s me in the middle of all this. How can _I_ alter the future?”

    Thranduil smiled sadly, taking Bard’s hands and sitting them down on the bed. “Perhaps it is of less consequence than we think.”

    “But what if the mission fails? What if it’s my fault?” said Bard.

    “Then it is my fault too, for bringing you,” said Thranduil. He kissed Bard roughly and earnestly. “Let’s not think of it. This is the present, and the future is yet to be determined.”

    “But –”

    Thranduil silenced Bard with another kiss. “No more,” he murmured.

 

    Bard woke in the middle of the night to find the bed empty. His hands wandered over the cold space where Thranduil’s body was supposed to be, but wasn’t. From behind the curtains, he could see a sliver of yellow light coming from the adjoining room. Thranduil was at his desk, wrapped in a blanket and reading over the manuscripts Galadriel had left him to ponder on.

    Bard got up, shivering and yawning.

    “Come back to bed,” he breathed, his fingers running through Thranduil’s hair.

    Thranduil shook his head, not looking at Bard. He held a magnifying glass to the script, trying to make out words that were particularly faded.

    With a resigned sigh, Bard left Thranduil to it, though he slept poorly for the remainder of the night, as the candle was never extinguished and Thranduil never returned to bed.


	11. Birthright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a ~flashback chapter~ which I was not a fan of writing especially because there is such a change in perspective, but once I got the idea into my head, I had to finish it for the sake of reference.

Lanterns rose over the docks of Laketown, blinking yellow and orange against the inky night sky. Ships and boats bobbed in the water, their sails swaying in a gentle breeze as two men hauled barrels onto a Navy vessel, their footsteps silent against the plank.

    “What’s keeping them?” one of them whispered, rolling a final barrel onto the ship and standing it on the starboard side.

    “He’s taking the long way through town so as not to be spotted,” the other whispered, tossing back a mass of curly blonde hair out of his eyes. He frowned, looking at the first man with concern. “Are you certain about this, Ecthelion? Your absence from the court will not go unnoticed if you come with us.”

    “Father thinks I’m going to negotiate with Lord Elrond. The King has long desired Imladris for himself. He wishes to claim it before Gondor or Lothlorien can,” said Ecthelion, smoothing out his tunic distractedly as Glorfindel continued to set him with a piercing look, his blue eyes dancing in the orange lanterns.

    “It is too dangerous for you to come,” he said.

    “I want to,” Ecthelion glowered. “I am tired of being left behind.”

    Glorfindel’s expression softened, which it did not do for anyone except Ecthelion.

    “I would not want to see you forsaken. You have a good life here,” he said.

    “It is not a life I wish to lead anymore. Wherever you go, I go.”

    Glorfindel blushed deep crimson at these words, but in the dim light of the docks Ecthelion did not see. He turned instead to the town, where figures could be spotted flitting between the houses and streets, merely shadows kept safe by the watchful eye of the crescent moon.

    “They are coming.”

    They waited as the people approached the ship. Many of them were only children, while two others were grown men, though both still early in their adulthood.

    Thranduil lead the procession through the cobbled streets of Laketown, his eyes peeled in case they were seen by soldiers or drunk tavern-goers. It was dangerous to take the children through the harbour town and it would all be for nought if they were found; Thranduil was paranoid now that they were so close. Though he had done this countless times, it never got any easier.

    He paused next to a smithy, listening for footsteps or voices and holding his arm outstretched for the others to stop.

    “This would have been easier during the day,” whispered his companion from behind the children, who sniffled and gasped at every small sound, shivering in their thin clothes. “No one would have noticed the children among a crowd.”

    “I will not take such a risk, Egalmoth,” Thranduil said.

    “But I have heard rumours; people have noticed that children are going missing,” Egalmoth insisted.

    “Now is not the time to lecture me about the dangers.”

    Thranduil signalled them on again. The children followed him obediently, their eyes darting from side-to-side much like his did, praying their escape would be made without implications. They feared being captured and sentenced to a far worse fate than what they were originally dealt.

    Close now to the waiting vessel, they all dashed the last stretch of harbour, clattering onto the docks noisily. Glorfindel and Ecthelion met them at the plank, looking nervous, but also relieved.

    “Any trouble?” Thranduil asked.

    Glorfindel shook his head. “No, but we better hurry. The sun will rise in a few hours. The rest of the crew are setting everything up below deck.”

    Thranduil nodded, and then turned to Egalmoth “Find the children some bedding. Let them rest.”

    “Are you coming with us this time?” Glorfindel inquired, clapping Egalmoth on the shoulder as he walked up the plank with the children, who all seemed to be breathing normally again.

    “No,” Thranduil said. “The King is suspicious of me. He realised his last few shipments have not made it to their destination.”

    “Thranduil, you’ll be executed for this if you’re not careful,” said Ecthelion.

    “So could any of you. We do this because we must.”

    “What of the Queen? Have you told her yet?” said Glorfindel.

    Thranduil shook his head. “She is too preoccupied with her own secrets. But I must confide in her soon; we can’t keep smuggling children out of the country like this.”

    He climbed onto the ship with the others, surveying its cargo and hoping there would be enough rations to last the month-long crossing to Imladris. They had barely scraped enough food for the children to survive the last journey; the crew were too accustomed to having enough to eat and it was proving difficult to feed them all adequately.

    The vessel rocked gently on the water under Thranduil’s feet as people moved about below deck, tying the last of the cannons and securing the cargo. Thranduil liked the sea; it tempted him, but he could not abandon himself to it. To do what was right by his country and his people, he had to stay home, though he hardly felt he could call it that anymore.

    “Are there enough bunks for everyone?” he asked as Egalmoth reappeared from the hold.

    “There should be,” said Egalmoth, counting on his fingers. He smirked. “Well, maybe Maglor can sleep on the floor.”

    Thranduil laughed and – though he was reluctant to leave – he returned to the plank, resting his hand on the railing of the ship and feeling the smooth wood beneath his fingers, wishing he could be roughened and free like the oceans. He thought of Tauriel and how she had enjoyed being aboard a ship so long as she wasn’t chained and confined. She had run across the deck like a wild nymph, swinging from the ropes as though she was borne by the water that lapped the hull. Thranduil missed her, and wondered if she was happy where she was.

    He looked back at Glorfindel.

    “Be safe,” he said. “Tell Tauriel I love her.”

    “I will. And I’ll bring you back a nice hat from Imladris,” said Glorfindel with a grin.

    Smirking, Thranduil swept down to the docks and the plank was hauled up by Glorfindel and Feren, who waved cheerfully when he saw Thranduil. In silence, the young Prince stood and watched the sails of the _Eryn Lasgalen_ unfurl and catch the wind. The anchor was weighed and the ship began to slink away from the harbour, the dim figures of Thranduil’s friends waving goodbye. He raised a hand in farewell, dreading the two months that would pass before he could see them again.

    He turned to leave, the anxiety of his burden finally lifted, but a flash of silver bared bright in the moonlight caught his eye. Thranduil froze, his hand leaping instinctively to his sword, ready to meet the other should it show itself.

    And it did.

    A man fell out of the shadows, his brow arched high and his sword pointed at Thranduil. Thranduil noted the glint of a badge on his uniform, and then the scratchy beard on his chin.

    “Stay your weapon, Lieutenant Elros,” he commanded, though unable to take the edge off his tone. “How dare you threaten –”

    “Forgive me, my lord,” Elros sneered. “I do believe you just boarded those slaves onto the wrong ship… I don’t think the King would be too pleased to hear about that.”

    Thranduil took a step back, tightening the grip on his hilt. “You’ve no proof,” he said, gritting his teeth.

    “Once the King finds out his slaves have gone missing, I’ll have all the proof I need.”

    Desperate, Thranduil lunged, throwing out his sword to meet Elros’. Elros parried the blow easily, being older and far more skilled than his opponent. Cursing under his breath, Thranduil summoned his strength and dealt deadly hits, trying to disarm Elros, but the Lieutenant was stronger. The clash of steel and the scuffling of feet rang out through the harbour town, causing candles to be lit in the windows of nearby houses.

    Elros attacked swiftly and Thranduil parried as fast as he was able, his breathing already coming out in aching gasps that ripped through his chest. Elros was backing him towards the water and, no matter how much Thranduil tried to gain the advantage, the edge of the docks came closer and closer.

    Elros’ sword met Thranduil’s with a shuddering force. Thranduil blocked it with both hands, his back burning with the effort it took to stop from falling into the water. With a heave, he started to push against Elros’ sword, but the other man kicked out a foot and it made contact with Thranduil’s knee. Gasping in pain, Thranduil fell to the ground, his hand loosening on his sword just enough for Elros to knock it away. It splashed into the water.

    “You cheated,” Thranduil spat.

    “It was a well-earned lesson in combat, if you like. Forgive me once again, Prince Thranduil, but you’ll be far easier to take in unconscious,” Elros said.

    Thranduil tried to get to his feet, but Elros’ fist came down fast. Thranduil felt his head swell with a dull ache and a drowsy numbness overcame him before he knew no more.  

 

    He woke with a pounding headache. The wall he leant against was cold and he could hear the steady _drip, drip, drip_ of water echoing somewhere nearby, coupled with the broken movements of people, their bare feet shuffling against the stone floor.

    Thranduil opened his eyes, squinting at the pale light that shone through a high window. He sat on straw, and the straw he sat on was in a cell. He was in the dungeons, and not the nice ones either, for Thranduil had often walked the line of bars to lock away pirates and thieves, and these particular cells were for the lowest of criminals.

    How typical, he thought, for his father to make such a point. Thranduil was well aware of the illegality of his actions; he didn’t need to be tossed into a cell to be reminded of that. Absently, he wondered what kind of punishment he would receive, and more absently still, if he would care about it at all when it came.

    Thranduil got to his feet gingerly, ignoring the smell of stale urine permeating from the other cells. His knee throbbed dully and he pulled up his breeches to inspect the damage. It wasn’t broken, but a bruise had begun to bloom where the skin was red and swollen. He rolled his pants down again, sighing.

    He knew it would do no good to call out, but Thranduil was unforgivably thirsty. He wasn’t about to admit it, but he was accustomed to a certain kind of lifestyle – one that did not involve jail cells and being ignored.

    He peered down the dark corridor, which was lit with only a single torch bracket towards the far end. It cast the shadow of a guard standing by the door, but when Thranduil called out him, he was not answered.

    Resigned to wait, Thranduil returned to the straw on the ground to sleep off his headache. He knew it would be a long time before anyone came to see him, if they came at all. He pulled his shoulder-length hair away from the dirty wall and rested his head there, hoping Glorfindel and the others made it out of the harbour all right. Thranduil did not care what happened to him, so long as his friends did not suffer the consequences as well.

    When someone finally came to visit him, the sun had begun to sink low and it burned hot and bright through the high, barred window of the cell. Thranduil woke with a start, his face flushed from the heat and the sound of voices coming down to meet him.

    “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but no one is allowed to see the Prince,” said the guard, his shadow twisting in the torchlight. Thranduil tried to see through the bars at who was coming to honour him with their presence.

    “I hardly think that rule applies to me,” came a light, female voice. “Stand aside.”

    He heard the click of heels approaching and scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering uncomfortably. He watched as his mother came into view. Her skirts came first, soft green and richly embroidered, and then the rest of her, her expression stern and her silver hair – so like her son’s – twisted high in an elegant knot with sparkling ornaments. Thranduil resembled her a great deal, having inherited her fine chin, blue eyes, and tall stature, but right now he knew she did not wish to be related to him at all.

    Queen Nemireth glared at her son, and Thranduil did his best to look sheepish. He knew he ought to feel guilty for bringing her such shame, but even his mother’s wrath and disappointment couldn’t make him regret what he had done.

    But there was more than anger in her eyes. A glint of amusement fell through, catching Thranduil’s attention. He frowned at her, but did not speak as it was not his place.

    “It breaks my heart to see you behind bars,” Nemireth said softly.

    Thranduil leaned against the metal, smirking now. “I never thought you would befoul yourself with the company of felons such as me.”

    Nemireth scowled. “Do not be insolent about your position, Thranduil. I have heard about what happened.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Lieutenant Elros has just informed me of your betrayal to the crown.”

    Thranduil hissed. “A betrayal I am proud of.”

    Nemireth smiled. “I am glad to hear that. I was not aware our appraised monarch was selling children to the Northerners.”

    “How did you find out?” said Thranduil in surprise.

    The Queen’s lips curled with disgust. “I wheedled the information out of Elros when he saw fit to… debrief me about what happened. Your father did not think I ought to know our own son had been imprisoned.”

    “This is a joke. Am I to be treated like a common criminal?” Thranduil growled, his fingers twisting around the bars furiously.

    “You are to be tried tomorrow morning. Your father does not wish to see you until then,” Nemireth said.

    “Tried? A trial for me ends in a hanging and he knows it.”

    Thranduil’s mouth went dry. If he was hanged, his friends would never know until they returned from Imladris, and then they too would be executed for treason. If he didn’t find a way to escape and warn them, all their work would have been for nothing. Their sacrifices would have been for nothing.

    Nemireth sensed Thranduil’s distress and she clasped a tender hand over one of his. He let go of the bars and pulled her fingers through to kiss them, closing his eyes against their comfort and sweet smell of jasmine.

    “I will get you out of here,” Nemireth whispered.

    Thranduil’s eyes flew open. “How?”

    “Oh, I have my influences,” she said, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

    “But if you get caught helping me…”

    “I won’t. You’ll be out of the country before anyone notices you are not in your cell. Wait until the cover of night. I will have someone collect you.”

    “But my friends – surely they have been chased through the Grey Mountains by now –”

    Nemireth cut him off impatiently. “It has been dealt with. I sent a dispatch of trustworthy sailors to steer the King’s men back home. I would have come to see you sooner had I not been cleaning up the mess Elros has made.”

    Thranduil tightened his grip around his mother’s fingers. “You would plot against your own husband…?”

    “Do not count this as my first offence, Thranduil. I would have dealt with this sooner if only I had known. How long since you found out?” Nemireth asked.

    “A year.”

    “You’ve been freeing slaves for a year? Why did you not tell me?” Nemireth’s tone was harsh now, but still kind.

    “It was not your burden,” said Thranduil.

    Nemireth scoffed. “Well, it is now. I will see you tonight.”

    Thranduil nodded, though his heart constricted painfully in his chest. He let go of his mother’s hand and she disappeared down the corridor, leaving him alone once more.

   Thranduil waited the long hours, ignoring his hunger and thirst. He listened to the other prisoners, some of whom cried while others sang the evening away, their lyrics like a lament to the moon. He almost felt sorry for them, now knowing how it felt to endure the wait before an inevitable death sentence. Thranduil knew his escape would come soon – his mother’s spies and assassins were cunning and reliable – but he couldn’t help but dwell on the fate he was meant to meet at the gallows, and if he would meet it with courage like he had always promised himself. 

    It was nearly midnight when he heard footsteps again; heavy boots like an unholy beast in the silence that had swallowed the dungeons as the hours grew later and the prisoners slept. But not Thranduil; he could not sleep anymore, but only wait and pray his mother would deliver her promise.

   A man approached his cell, clad in black clothes and his face concealed with a mask and a hat. He held in his hands the ring of keys that was meant to be with the guard.

    “Who are you?”

    “Ssh!”

    It wasn’t a male voice that made the noise, but a female’s. Thranduil got to his feet as the stranger fitted a key into the lock of the door and clicked it open, ushering him out. He followed her down the line of cells as silently as he could. The guard who was stationed at the door was asleep in his chair, a bottle of rum on the table.

    “This way.”

    They hurried up the stone stairs and out into the palace courtyard where the moon threatened to reveal Thranduil’s flight. But he and the masked girl kept to the shadows, edging along the high wall to a window that had been left open. A thick rope hung from it and they climbed, tumbling noiselessly into one of the many unoccupied bedrooms of the palace.

    Thranduil knew his home better than the back of his hand, but the girl knew it better. She led him through secret doors behind tapestries and tricks walls and bookcases that held dusty, ill-used passageways. They were barely ghosts, running up and down the many corridors and stairs until they reached the Queen’s private quarters. The girl removed her hat and from it she tousled tresses of long, curly red hair. She pushed open the door and they slipped inside.

    “I have him, my lady.”

    Nemireth was standing by her desk, a small huddle of people talking to her in hushed voices. At Thranduil’s arrival, they fell quiet and turned around. To his amazement, he was looking at many of his colleagues; Maeglin and Lethuin, his friends, and Galion, who was the King’s youngest and wisest advisor, and who always shared secrets of the court to Thranduil when he was not allowed to attend. They all smiled warmly at him as the girl joined them, removing her mask. She was very pretty, but even younger than Thranduil’s twenty years.

    “This is Nimrodel,” Nemireth said, taking the girl to her side affectionately.

    “I didn’t know you recruited such young spies,” said Thranduil, half impressed, half shocked.

    “You’re welcome,” said Nimrodel icily. Lethuin smirked at her.

    “Thranduil, this your new crew,” Nemireth added, gesturing to the four men in front of her.

    “My crew?”

    “Aye, aye, Captain!” Lethuin exclaimed, standing at a mock salute.

    Thranduil gaped at them all. “I don’t understand.”

    “Sit. It is time you were told of your inheritance,” said Nemireth.

    “But what about the King?” Thranduil protested, sinking into a sofa.

    Nemireth waved a hand airily and sat beside her son.

    “He is drunk on wine and sleeping with the help of a draught. Now, you see this jewel?” On her chest hung a pendant; a jewel so white and bright it was like a tiny piece of star, emitting its own unique glow. “This is the birthright of our family – _our_ family, not your father’s. This is but a small token I was able to keep after he took the gems and hid them from me.”

    Thranduil’s stomach twisted. “He took them from you? Why?”

    “Those gems grant a person unquestionable right to rule – if you or I or anyone else had them, your father would be overthrown in an instant. I was a fool. When we married, he convinced me to hand the gems over and he had them locked away I know not where. I realise now that I married the wrong man…”

    “You want me to find them,” Thranduil whispered, his stomached twisting more violently now.

    “I would not entrust this task to anyone else. I know you would wish to see your work done.”

    Thranduil’s thoughts spun sickeningly, his headache returning with a vengeance. “But if I sail… if I Captain these men on a ship, as a crew… you’re asking me to go on account… to be a pirate.”

    Nemireth’s eyes were gentle and when she placed her hands on Thranduil’s, his heart steadied and his mind was calm. He knew in his heart that he didn’t have a choice; he started this, and he would have to see it finished, whatever the cost. There was more than just the lives of innocent children at stake, he understood that. Long had he watched and gritted his teeth against the damage his father dealt to the country – to Thranduil’s country. His people were suffering. There wasn’t enough hope to spread around, and he wanted that to change.

    “I would not ask this of you if there was any other way.”

    Thranduil took a deep breath, his mind still reeling. He was aware of everyone staring at him, awaiting his decision.

    “What of the slaves being sent north?” he said at last. “If I am not here to help them…”

    “I will take care of it as best I can. I have recently enlisted a new ally,” said Nemireth, smiling smugly.

    “Who?”

    “The man who arrested you.”

    “Elros? But he –”

    “– has realised the mistake he made and is prepared to do everything he can to help you. Consider him a friend from here on end,” Nemireth said.

    “I will do no such thing until he proven his loyalty to me,” Thranduil said angrily.

    “So be it. But don’t worry; he will play his role dutifully.”

    “Have you blackmailed him?” said Thranduil, raising an eyebrow.

    Nemireth smiled placidly. “Only a little.”

    “When do we leave?”

    “Immediately.”

     “And how am I supposed to find the gems? You have given me no clues, no maps, and almost no crew,” said Thranduil, eyeing his friends dubiously. He had complete faith in them, of course, but they weren’t enough to sail a ship and start a revolution.

    “I have sent word to Glorfindel and Lord Elrond of Rivendell. You will take a small ship and meet the rest of your crew there; it is fortunate that Glorfindel took one of the largest ships in the fleet. As for Elrond, you must befriend him, Thranduil. He was a pirate once and he knows the oceans well.”

    “That will do us little good if you cannot give me a location to start searching,” Thranduil said, chewing his lip.

    Nemireth sighed. She unclasped the necklace that the jewel hung from and put it around Thranduil’s neck. “I know I am asking a great deal from you, my son. There is much even I don’t understand. But you’re a clever, good man, and I know you will find our heirlooms. Sail, and we will do all we can to help you here. I’ll make sure Elros keeps you posted on anything we find. He and Elrond are brothers and they work well together.”

    “But I don’t want to leave,” Thranduil said so quietly that only his mother could hear. “I want to stay at home.”

   She pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I know. But it’s time for us to stand up to your father, and when you come home, you can take your rightful place as king.”

    Thranduil’s heart skipped a bit. “King? No, I don’t want to.”

    Nemireth drew back, puzzled. “But you’re a Prince.”

    “No,” Thranduil murmured, his fingers reaching up to the jewel around his neck. “I’m a pirate.”

 

    They sailed before dawn with as many supplies as they could carry. The men loaded a small ship while Nimrodel argued with the Queen and anyone who would listen that she wanted to go as well.

    “I have faced more hardship than this,” she cried. “I will sail. For you, my Queen, I will do it.”

    Nemireth did not approve, but she was far too lenient towards Nimrodel. “Thranduil, what do you think?” she asked

    Thranduil was buckling on a new sword. He fingered the white gems on the hilt, feeling very much incongruous already in the place he knew he could no longer call home. He looked up at Nimrodel and he could see a fire in her eyes that would not be quenched even by the deepest of oceans.

    “I hear it is bad luck to have a woman aboard a ship,” he said simply, fastening the belt.

    Nimrodel bristled. “Bad luck is upon you whether a woman is involved or not. I want to go; I want to fight.”

    Thranduil smiled. “I won’t put a good pair of hands to waste. I am sure you will be capable on a ship.”

    Beaming, Nimrodel went to fetch her things and meet the others at the docks. Thranduil did not miss the apologetic, almost yearning look she exchanged with the Queen. Nimrodel loved her and Thranduil knew she would do anything for the woman who had saved her from poverty and despair.

    “Are you sure about this?” said Nemireth, checking the time on the mantelpiece in her bedroom.

    Thranduil sighed, throwing a cloak over his shoulders. “It’s your idea,” he said.

    “I know…” Nemireth faltered, looking suddenly grave as she approached Thranduil, helping him with the catch on his cloak. “I am afraid for you. What if you don’t make it back?”

    “I will. I’ll come home,” Thranduil said. He embraced his mother, breathing in her perfume just in case it was the last time. “I won’t fail you.”

    The clock chimed; dawn was approaching. Thranduil and his mother broke apart, watching each other for a moment. Then, Nemireth went to a dresser by the window and opened a tiny drawer, taking something from within.

    “Here; you will need this on your journey, I hope.” She pushed an old, iron key into Thranduil’s hand. “Now you must go. Go with the tide; go with all my blessings.”

    “Won’t you see us off?” Thranduil said as he was rushed out of the Queen’s chambers, trying to reach out for her hand, if only to touch it once more.

    “We will see each other again soon. Go!”

    Thranduil forced himself to leave, tears prickling his eyes. He ripped down the corridors of the palace, not even taking a moment to appreciate the place he had lived all his life. There was no time for sentimentality, no time for goodbyes. It was now the time to run, though he wondered when he would ever stop, or when he would ever set foot in these halls again.

    He ran to the docks where the rest of his small crew were waiting. Thranduil kept his hair tucked into his shirt, lowering his hat so as not to be recognised by the early morning fisherman.

    On the docks, he knocked into a scrawny boy carrying fishing nets.

    “Sorry, mister!”

    “Bard, what have I told you about getting in people’s way?”

    “He bumped into me!”

    Thranduil clambered onto the small ship where his new crew were awaiting his command. He was Captain now, whether he would ever be used to that idea or not. These men were his friends and it was with a surge of gratitude that he saw the blazing looks on their faces and he knew they would follow him to whatever end.

    Nimrodel was there as well, looking quite strange in breeches and a billowing, white shirt. She slid a dagger into a sheath on her belt and behind her the pink tinges of sunrise were clashing with her red hair. Thranduil was glad she had come along. He didn’t know why, but he trusted and liked Nimrodel; she was pure energy – young and reckless – but still hard and understanding, knowing exactly what she was getting herself into.

    “Orders, Captain,” said Galion, standing at attention at the helm.

    “Hoist the sails and weigh anchor,” said Thranduil to his crew, trying to remember all he had learned about nautical terms from his last few voyages.

    The ship lurched on the water, eager to be free of his restraints and be carried out with the tide towards an endless horizon. Despite his nerves and misgivings, Thranduil watched the sunrise from the helm, his heart soaring with the sails and the seagulls that flew through the morning mist and clouds. Then, he looked back at the harbour and across the town he could see the palace, its looming buttresses just visible in the semi-darkness. He wasn’t quite aware of what he was leaving behind; his life, his title, his home. In the adrenaline of his hasty departure, Thranduil was not yet conscious of the journey ahead, or of the devastation that was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway, a moment of silence for those not featured beyond this chapter: Maglor, Egalmoth, Maeglin, Ecthelion, Amrod, Amras and Celebrimbor. I can't juggle all these elves my god.  
> Thank you for reading! There will be mermaids in the next chapter.


	12. Through The Wold

In the days following the visit to Galadriel, the matter of a heading became a pressing issue. Unable to linger on the coast of Lothlorien without being spotting, Haldir steered the ship south into open water while Thranduil riffled desperately through the contents of the accounts Galadriel had given him on the dragon, trying to decipher where it might be hiding, and therefore which direction they ought to sail. Bilbo had told them that the dragon was north, but which north?

    “I swear, I don’t know where they sailed from Erebor,” he told Thranduil.

    “I thought you were a close confidant of Thorin Oakenshield,” the Captain said.

    Bilbo blushed very vividly at these words, but stood his ground. He had not adapted well to life on a ship; though he had found his sea legs all right, he was sunburnt and irritable, complaining constantly that he wanted to go home and demanding to know why he had been brought on this ‘ludicrous voyage’ at all.

    “That isn’t – it’s not – I didn’t go to the dragon! My job was to stay behind and oversee paperwork, as I have said many times now. All I was told is that the beast is somewhere north.”

    Like Bilbo, Thranduil’s crew were also tense and ill-tempered, annoyed that they had made the detour to Lothlorien for what appeared to be no reason at all, though their Captain insisted the manuscripts would be worth their cost. However, as they sailed around in circles on the outskirts of Rohan, the pirates began to bristle with complaints, harassing Thranduil about a heading and demanding to know if he even knew what he was doing.

    The truth was, Thranduil didn’t. He was going around in circles much like the ship was, unable to find anything that might inform him of where the dragon was, or where it kept its plunder if not in the same place. He assured his men over and over that he was close to working it out, but shut up in his cabin Bard witnessed the grief Thranduil felt at failing his crew. He didn’t sleep, and ate only when forced, spending hours at his desk staring at the papers, willing them to reveal what he needed to know.

    Bard offered his help many times, but Thranduil refused it, so Bard would go out to talk to the others, hoping to stifle their bad moods.

    “I really think we ought to go back to Imladris,” said Lindir as he cleaned a wound on Meludir’s arm and found some bandages in his medical bag. It was the third day of no progress.

    Nimrodel, who was sitting on a barrel against the forecastle across from the men, said, “Why are you here, Lindir, if only to insist on returning home?”

    Lindir scowled. “I am here at Captain Elrond’s command –”

    “ _Captain?_ ” Nimrodel shrilled, straightening up and glaring at him. “The only _Captain_ aboard this ship is Thranduil and I’ll not let you disrespect his leadership.”

    “Leadership? We haven’t moved in three days; we ought to make port,” said Lindir, bandaging Meludir’s arm a little too tightly and making him wince.

    “Make port where, you fool? There isn’t anywhere for us to go,” said Nimrodel, who looked distinctly nettled.

    “Well, what about Rohan? They’ve sworn no allegiance to King Oropher.”

    “Ha! Those land-dwellers?” It was Feren who spoke. Having overheard the argument from across the deck, he approached them and sat beside Nimrodel. “They have no love for the ocean; especially those that frequent it. You’re safer walking into Mordor as a pirate than Rohan or Gondor.”

    “You see?” said Nimrodel smugly. “We’re fine where we are. Captain will have a heading for us soon.”

    “Speaking of where we are…” said Meludir, casting his good eye to their surroundings. The water was an endless expanse of blue and green and white, the waves rising and falling steadily against the hull of the ship. The horizon was broken only by the dark, jagged silhouette of Fangorn in the west, which they had been careful to avoid after departing Lothlorien as it was far too treacherous to wander through.

    “Well, if that’s Fangorn, and Lothlorien is that way…” Nimrodel pulled a compass from her belt. “We’re in The Wold – Rohan is about fifty miles south of here. I’m surprised we can’t see it.”

    “Isn’t The Wold part of that country?” Bard asked, squinting over the water.

    “It is, but Rohan gets all their trade from Gondor so they have no need for ships. It’s rare to find anyone out here; we’re quite safe.”

    “They say Mordor threatens Gondor with war,” Bard remarked.

    “I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Lindir gravely. “Mordor is a force to be reckoned with. Gondor once owned most of these islands and oceans, so I daresay Mordor wishes to achieve the same feat in due course.”

    “Do you think even Greenwood would fall?” said Bard anxiously.

    “All civilisations eventually fall to a greater power; it is the natural order of politics and war.”

    “But Greenwood is one of the largest countries,” Bard protested. “Surely it can withstand any assault.”

    “Not if Mordor gains power over Gondor first,” said Feren.

    “But what if Thranduil becomes King?” Meludir interjected. “If Thranduil is King, then surely he could produce enough resistance –”

    “Captain doesn’t want to be King,” Nimrodel interrupted.

    “But he loves his country,” said Bard.

    “I think he loves the sea more.”

    The five of them fell silent, watching the water lap at the ship merrily in the sun. It was hard not to love the sea above all other things. It was beautifully tangible and wild and free, and to sail upon it was an honour all pirates treasured. It could call a man back with just a whisper and he would answer it without hesitation.

    “I heard The Wold is kept clear of ships to allow the mermaids to make the journey to Fangorn from the Brown Sea,” said Meludir, nonchalantly breaking the silence as he put his shirt back on.

    “You need to stop listening to Galion’s stupid stories,” said Feren, rolling his eyes. “There’s no such thing as mermaids.”

    “Galion said they migrate west to be with their mates in the cooler seasons.”

    Feren smirked. “Even if that were true, I don’t see why we ought to worry about it.”

    “Well, summer ended a few days ago,” said Nimrodel quietly.

    “It doesn’t matter! There’s no such thing as mermaids!”

    “But if sea serpents and dragons exist…” Lindir piped up.

    Feren puffed up like a bullfrog and got to his feet. “Superstitious little girls, the lot of you,” he said, and walked away.

    “Oh, but I would love to see a mermaid,” Nimrodel breathed, brushing back her curly hair with her fingers and adjusting her hat. “Galion says they take on all sorts of sea-life. Some mermaids are as tiny as cod fish, while others are as huge as whales!”

    “If they swim this crossing to Fangorn, won’t we be in the way?” said Bard.

    “Most likely. But they’re not dangerous if you leave them alone.”

    “I though Galion said one tried to pull him under the water.”

    “That’s only because he was liquored and flirting with her. The poor dear, she got very upset and – well – mermaids aren’t known for their even tempers. Make a mermaid angry and it will be the last thing you’ll ever do.”

    “But then how did Galion get away?” Bard wondered.

    Nimrodel giggled. “You’ll have to ask him yourself; I can’t tell it nearly as well as he does.”

    Bard wanted to, but Galion was very busy with his role as Navigator. With Thranduil shut up in his cabin and Bard equally as useless, the crew looked to Galion for their heading. But even he didn’t know where they were going. He sat at the helm with Haldir, watching his compass and muttering over a map of Middle Earth, quite oblivious to the strain building among the rest of the pirates.

    “I think running into some mermaids would do us a world of good,” Meludir said, watching as Amroth and Erestor began a vicious quarrel on the other side of the deck.

    Nimrodel nodded emphatically. “A life-or-death situation might help ease the tension,” she said.

    Bard smirked. “So long as no one actually dies.”

    He got up and strode across the deck, gazing around at the pirates. Feren and Lethuin had disappeared below deck, so there was little chance for a decent spar, and Glorfindel was with Tauriel, Elladan, and Elrohir, entertaining them with the new tricks he could do with his prosthetic hand. Orophin appeared to be ripping the seams of a coat, which Bard guessed was for the sole purpose of sewing it up again, and his brother was attempting to weld two daggers to either side of an old broom handle to create a double-edged weapon of complete and utter impracticability. Bard watched as Rúmil pulled strange bifocals down to his eyes, twisting the thick lenses to admire his handiwork.

    Bard didn’t fancy talking to anyone else so he went down to the hold to find some rum, deciding that some drink might quell the feeling of unease and lethargy that was building in his stomach.

    Much to his misfortune, however, Bard stumbled across Feren and Lethuin by the rack that held bottles of drink, nestled among some flour sacks and quite oblivious to their surroundings.

    Bard sighed and went ahead with his decision anyway, sliding a bottle of rum out of the rack. The sound of glass sliding against wood caused the other two to disentangle themselves and see who was intruding upon their privacy.

    “Christ, Bard, have you no decency?” said Feren, picking up a turnip and aiming it for Bard’s head.

    Bard ducked and the turnip hit the post behind him. “Do you guys have to do that where we keep the food?”

    “Not all of us have the luxury of an entire cabin at our disposal – ah, Lethuin!”

    Feren and Lethuin both fell deeper among the sacks of flour as the latter burst into a fit of laughter. Bard rolled his eyes and left them to it, taking the rum and climbing the stairs back to the deck.

     The sun was beginning to set on that third day, painting the horizon with gold and red. Galdor and Mithrellas had come out of the galley with stew and fresh-baked bread. Bard ate with the others, listened to them bicker, and then took a bowl to the Captain’s cabin.

    Thranduil was right where Bard had left him, hunched at his table with a blanket over his shoulders. For a moment, Bard thought he had fallen asleep, but he saw a ringed finger twitch, skating from the end of a sentence to the beginning of a new one. Thranduil’s nose was nearly touching the parchment in his effort to concentrate. Bard sighed.

    “That’s enough,” he said, and he swept the paper from Thranduil’s hands, replacing it with the bowl of stew.

    Thranduil started in his chair, blinking rapidly at the abrupt interruption. He glared at Bard furiously, his blue eyes flooding with sleepy tears.

    “I can’t find anything,” he croaked. “There’s nothing here about where the dragon lives.”

    “You need to take a break,” Bard said gently. “Without food or rest, you won’t decipher anything from those papers.”

    “But my crew is counting on me.”

    “Thranduil, it’s been three days. Your men are restless and angry at your discretion and isolation. If you clear your head you will be able give them something before they talk of mutiny.”

    “They wouldn’t,” Thranduil muttered savagely, pulling the bowl of stew in front of him. “Those men are loyal to me before they are pirates.”

    Bard sighed again, sitting down in the chair next to Thranduil. He handed him the rum to wash down the food.

    “We’re holding out in The Wold. There’s been talk of mermaids coming through here from the Brown Sea.”

    “Mermaid’s don’t exist, Bard,” Thranduil said, taking a huge swig of rum.

    Bard didn’t respond. He let Thranduil finish eating in silence, pondering his own beliefs about mermaids. He thought Lindir made a good point about the sea serpent; surely one fantastical creature did not rule out another. Bard only hoped, whether mermaids existed or not, that they would leave the ship unharmed as they crossed to Fangorn.

    When Thranduil finished eating, he downed the rest of the rum and then pulled the papers back towards him.

    “No,” said Bard at once, smacking his hand down against Thranduil’s.

    Without a word, he stood and began to tug Thranduil away from the desk, coaxing him to the bed with kisses. Thranduil was nothing if not proud of his position and power, but he submitted to Bard’s whispers and tender touches without much hesitation subsequent to being removed from the chair and he allowed his clothes to be discarded on the floor along with Bard’s.

    A wave jostled the ship and they fell onto the bed, laughing. In the dim candlelight, Bard saw Thranduil’s face momentarily alight with a rare smile he had not seen for days.

    Thranduil knew what Bard was trying to achieve, but let him achieve it all the same. Bard bore Thranduil down into the mattress so completely that he fell asleep almost at once afterwards. Bard pressed a kiss to his forehead, pulling up the sheets for warmth, and then climbed out of the bed.

    Gathering his things and getting dressed again, Bard shut the double doors that divided the cabin’s two rooms. Silently, he collected the manuscripts from Thranduil’s table into his arms and swept up to the quarterdeck.

    “Is Erestor in the chart house?” he asked Glorfindel, who was at the wheel while Haldir ate whatever leftovers he could get his hands on.

    Glorfindel nodded, looking at the papers in Bard’s hands. “What did you have to do to prise those from his grasp?” he asked.

    “Not as much as you might think,” said Bard with a smirk.

    He walked passed Glorfindel and shouldered open the door to the chart house, which was a cramped but well-lit room full of books and maps. Erestor was there with Elrond at the table by the only window, pouring over a map. They looked up at Bard’s entrance, eyebrows raised at the manuscripts.

    “Thranduil won’t be happy when he finds out you’ve taken those,” said Elrond, half troubled, half impressed.

    “He won’t find out for a while. I’ll put them back when we’re done,” said Bard, dumping it all onto the table. He sat down and all three of them started sorting through the reports, trying to pick up on any hints concerning the dragon’s whereabouts.

    “These writers are descriptive on everything except where the beast is supposed to be,” Erestor grumbled an hour later. The sun had set and the three of them read by candlelight, accompanied by the white cat Nimrodel had smuggled on board, whose name was Asfaloth and liked Bard very much because he kept feeding her scraps from the table like he had in Imladris. He stroked her fur absent-mindedly, concentrating hard on the sometimes indecipherable text. He was no accomplished reader and the reports were sorely testing his skills.

    “Well, this one says that he has a loose scale, near his left breast. It was loosened by an arrow almost two centuries ago,” he said, setting aside the paper he had finished reading. Thranduil had already underlined the important sentences with his quill.

    “That would have been when he first settled. Good thing we have firearms now. A cannon to the beast’s belly and we’ll be rid of him,” said Elrond assuredly.

    Bard wasn’t convinced it would be that easy, but he didn’t dare speak against Elrond’s judgement. They had to find the dragon first; they could argue later on what method would be best to slay it.

    They worked tirelessly into the night. Glorfindel came in with apples and rum for each of them and he sat between Bard and Erestor. He was unhelpful to their research, but helpful to the atmosphere. He offered his services as a jokester, making light of the situation and teasing Erestor. Despite their occasional disagreements, Bard was very glad to have him on board.

    “What about this?” Erestor said. He batted away Glorfindel’s wandering hand and smoothed out a particularly old report, which was almost entirely faded. “It says here; ‘long has the beast lingered in the north, making its home among the’ – I don’t know what that says –” He skimmed over a few words, his fingers twiddling. “’–left undisturbed. It is widely known that a sea serpent (see; leviathan) will guard its treasure for near to a thousand years. The great beast Smaug is no exception, having nestled himself among the…’”

    Erestor broke off and the entire cabin held its breath. He peered through a magnifying glass to the faded writing, holding a candle closer to the parchment.

    “’islands… mountains… north of…’” he murmured. Then, without warning, he slammed his fist on the table, making the other three jump and the cat slink off Bard’s lap indignantly. “The Iron Hills! North of the Iron Hills and south of Forodwaith!”

    The men around the table cheered, clinking their bottles of rum and bellowing.

    “We have to tell the others!” said Glorfindel, excitedly getting to his feet, but Erestor yanked him down again.

    “No. Captain Thranduil has to tell them. He’ll never forgive us if everyone else knows before does,” he said.

    “I agree,” vouched Elrond. “He will be upset enough to know that we figured out what he could not.”

    “He did most of the hard work anyway,” said Bard, his fingers brushing Thranduil’s neat underline’s and circles.

    “Is he still sleeping, do you think?” Glorfindel asked.

    “I hope so. I’ll tell him in the morning,” said Bard, and he gathered all the papers to return to the cabin.

    Glorfindel went with him. “You did a good thing, Bard,” he said.

    “What do you mean?”

    “Thranduil is an irritably solitary man, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. He refuses help if he thinks he can do something alone. But he needs someone like you to remind him that doing it alone isn’t always the best course of action. That’s why we’re all here; he might think he needs us to crew his ship and fight his enemies, but we’re here for so much more than that. You, especially, given our most recent developments. Have you thought on what Lady Galadriel said?”

    “Too much and not at all,” said Bard grimly. “I’m no hero, nor do I try and present myself as one. I do not believe I am destined to impact this voyage as much as she claimed.”

    “I disagree. I think there is more to you than meets the eye,” said Glorfindel.

    They paused outside the cabin, Bard chewing his lip and clutching tightly to the manuscripts. “I’m just here for Thranduil,” he said softly. “Wherever he goes, I go.”

    Glorfindel smiled weakly. “Ecthelion used to say the same of me. Be careful, then, won’t you?”

    “I’m entirely too careful when it comes to the sea,” Bard said with a coy grin he didn’t feel.

    “That’s not what I meant.”

    “I know.”

    Bard nodded goodnight to Glorfindel and entered the cabin. He laid out the papers on Thranduil’s table, setting the report on the serpent’s location at the top. Then, he undressed to his breeches and got into bed where Thranduil was still sleeping, his hair spilled out against the pillows and his face golden in the candlelight.

    Bard extinguished the candles and watched Thranduil sleeping through the paring of moonlight that shone through the window behind him. Despite what Glorfindel had said, Bard would follow Thranduil to whatever end. Be it fire or drowning sea or a rope around the neck, he would follow. It wasn’t a thought of loyalty or a driving passion to do something good, but simply that he loved Thranduil very much, and would hate to be parted from him.

 

    The morning rose with Thranduil focused and, to Bard’s immense relief, amused to see what had transpired while he slept.

    “I had just worked it out myself,” he said, picking up the report and reading it briefly. “Until you preoccupied me.”

    “Oh,” said Bard, his heart sinking heavily. “I’m sorry.”

    “Don’t be. I can see you have spotted other things that I did not, which will be useful. In truth, I’m glad you did this,” Thranduil said, smiling at Bard.

    Bard smiled back, his heart fluttering. “We didn’t tell the rest of the crew. Erestor said we ought to leave that honour to you.”

    Thranduil chuckled. He seemed in better spirits already. “Thank goodness for that.”

    They dressed and breakfasted and then Thranduil took to the helm to make his announcement, his hair brushed and his hat in place. He looked tempestuous and exhilarated, flushed from the previous night and invigorated by their new destination.

    “We have a heading! Set sail for the Iron Hills!”

    An almighty roar broke out among the pirates. They threw up their hats in celebration and then quickly set to work unfurling the sails and turning the ship east.

    However, just as the ship began to pick up speed and the mood of the pirates improved, they were suddenly jostled violently on the water, as though something had knocked the ship. With exclaims of surprise and fear everyone ran to the port side to peer over the edge into the water.

    “Did we hit a reef?” Mithrellas mused.

    “There aren't any reef’s here,” said Amroth, frowning.

    “No, look! It’s a whale!” cried Elladan delightedly, pointing far below them.

    It was indeed a whale, with a deep, blue-grey body and a powerful fin that beat the water steadily, creating rising currents that swayed and rocked the ship gently. But as Bard’s eyes raked the length of the creature, he saw long, grey arms with webbed hands large enough to hold the entire ship if persuaded and endless hair that glimmered through the water like a river of gold.

    The mermaid was bigger than anything Bard could ever have imagined. His heart seized uncomfortably in his chest, restricting his breathing when he saw that she was not alone. Though easily the largest, hundreds – perhaps thousands – of mermaids of different shapes and colours swam around her. There was one with the body of a shark and another that leapt and flew over the water with the aerodynamic tail of a dolphin. There was even a mermaid with the flailing, many tentacles of an octopus and a mermaid so tiny Bard was surprised he even spotted her, darting along with a seahorse tail.

    The pirates almost fell into the water in their awe, gasping and staring as the mermaids streamed beneath them, looking curiously at the ship that was in their way. They had relatively human faces, but their eyes were unnaturally wide and slanted and some of the deeper sea mermaids had no pupils, only white orbs made for seeing in the dark.

    One mermaid’s jumped out at them, causing all the pirates to fall back onto the deck as she grabbed hold of the railing and glared at them. She bared sharp, dolphin-like teeth at them and smacked the side of the ship with her tail angrily.

    “Are-are we in your way?” asked Galion, who was trembling from head to foot and unable to stop gaping.

   The mermaid smacked her tailed against the ship again.

    “We’re very sorry. We forgot that you would be migrating through these waters,” said Nimrodel, her eyes bulging out of her head. “Pay us no mind; we won’t harm you.”

    The mermaid splashed back into the water. Bard leaned over the edge of water to see her join a group of other mermaids, all with dolphin tales. Through the rippling water he noticed that they were speaking to each other, using their hands in a strangely human way.

    “Do you think they speak our language?” Tauriel said eagerly as she inclined far over the balustrade for a better look, holding onto her hat to stop it from flying away with her hair.

    “I doubt it. It’s best we leave them alone; they become hostile if you annoy them with questions,” said Galion, wiping sweating from his brow.

    The mermaids flitted beneath the ship, gliding through the water and poking their heads above the surface. Some of the younger, more curious ones waved to the pirates, chattering and giggling excitedly amongst themselves. Bard watched as one of them started to climb along the side of the ship, heaving herself up to the railing with strong arms. She looked – in Bard’s opinion – like how a mermaid was supposed to, with a scaly, yellow tail and soft, pink hair that she pushed out of her face with a webbed hand. Bard saw the gills on her neck, protruding oddly out of the yellowy human flesh, and he wondered if she could even breathe out of water. But she seemed perfectly at ease and, when she smiled, revealed a row of very sharp teeth.

    She blinked amber eyes at Bard, and the membrane glistened over them for a moment each time, much like a reptile. Bard repressed a shudder.

    Thranduil walked over and the mermaid turned her head to look at him. She didn’t have eyebrows, but her brow still rose at the sight she saw and her tail started to bang enthusiastically against the ship, her frail dorsal fin stretching as she leaned further forward.

    “I think she likes you,” said Nimrodel with a giggle.

    Thranduil smirked and the mermaid reached out to touch his hair. She laughed metallic and shrill, and then let go of the railing to fall back into the water.

 

    The novelty of the mermaids wore off a little by the next day and the pirates returned to their duties on board. They were forced to continue their journey through the Wold to the Brown Sea as there was nowhere else for them to safely travel. But the mermaids let them be, deciding they were not a threat to their migration.

    Galion was quite unbearable, declaring over and over that he had been right about mermaids all along, but nobody listened to him. They lounged on the deck in the sun and played games and sparred and watched the mermaids swimming below, enjoying their newly lifted spirits. Mithrellas and Nimrodel talked excitedly about the mermaids, while Erestor was attempted to research them from afar, squinting at them from behind a quill and parchment.

    Thranduil also seemed quite taken with the curious sea-dwellers. He did not stay in his cabin or return to his papers, but sat on the railing with his bare feet dangling above the water. Bard went over and sat with him, taking off his shoes and gazing down at the shimmering, sparkling colours of the mermaids through the clear water.

    “Why do they call it the Brown Sea if the water is so clear?” he wondered aloud as one mermaid broke ranks, ripping through the water with astonishing speed. She launched herself into the air and her long-fingered hands clamped around a passing bird which had strayed too close to the surface.

    “It used to be brown, a long time ago,” Thranduil said. On the railing of the ship, his hand inched closer to Bard’s. “But it was said that the mermaids came and healed the water, nurturing it back to health. Those who don’t believe thought it simply to be a natural phenomenon, but it seems it is as fantastical as they say.”

    “Why didn’t you believe in mermaids?” Bard asked. Their fingers met on the wood, pressing and playing.

    “When you face enough hardship, it’s hard to believe something so beautiful could exist. Yet, in spite of war and greed and betrayal, creatures like this still tend the world, giving it a real purpose.”

    Thranduil turned his eyes away from the mermaids and looked at Bard, his face lighting up with a smile. Bard returned it, lifting Thranduil’s fingers to kiss them.

    “Perhaps I am too innocent of hardship to understand,” he said quietly. “But I can’t imagine what might happen to the good things if people stopped fighting for them.”

    “Hardship doesn’t make you more knowledgeable than others. It just makes you sad,” said Thranduil.

    “Are you sad?” said Bard.

    “Not as much as I was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably didn't write the mermaids as best I could, but I was really pushing the word limit on this chapter. I actually read about the Brown Lands and how it was once home to the Entwives who nurtured their gardens there, so I though I would make them mermaids who cross over to Fangorn to be with their families during the colder seasons. I've always wanted to write my own interpretation of mermaids so I was excited to share my own thoughts with you.  
> Anyway, thank you all again for reading. I'm hoping to put a bit more action and sword fights into the next chapter.


	13. Men, Women, and Pirates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why this chapter exists. Just filling in time, I suppose. But I rather enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy reading it!

The crossing of the Brown Sea was uneventful once the mermaids finally dispersed. Once or twice, the pirates caught glimpses of a mermaid swimming madly to catch up with the others, but the two groups parted ways and the ship was left to sail smoothly through the beautifully nurtured water, which was like a Garden of Eden amidst the endless blue. Small islands dotted the Brown Sea, like freckles of yellow sand where palm trees and coral reefs grew. The pirates took the longboats to some of the larger shores and basked in the sun, sometimes venturing into the water to cool off and watch tiny fish swim around their ankles in the clear shallows, forgetting about their voyage just for a little while. They were all very tired, unable now to accept that they must at last move forward and see months without a moment of rest.

    The plan was to give Greenwood as wide a birth as possible, so it took over a week to cross the Brown Sea. Ahead of them stretched a ceaseless horizon – dark water as far as the eye could see. Bard awed at it, having never been this way before. He ran to the bow of the ship, staring out at the open sea and breathing in the new sense of adventure and freedom. It was like sailing to a different world. This, he thought,  _this_ was why he had become a sailor. And this was why he had become a pirate.

    There was not much to tell of the days that followed. They fell into each other much like Bard and Thranduil did in bed when the nights were cool and the wine still good. The winds picked up and carried the _Eryn Lasgalen_  steadily through the long, easy days of autumn, promising less scorching heat and more soft, soothing rain. The pirates sparred and played their games and told jokes and stories and Bard knew, even then, that he would look back on that time with fondness.

    The ocean that lay ahead of them was called the Rhûn Sea and it dominated the western part of Rhovanion; it seemed to go on forever.

    “Thranduil, are we going to make port soon?” asked Tauriel one day, climbing the steps to the quarterdeck where Thranduil was at the helm with Bard. She looked weary and her skin had tanned very brown since leaving Imladris, causing her to bloom with freckles.

    Thranduil frowned at her. “Not for another few weeks, at least.”

    Tauriel groaned and slumped over the balustrade in front of the wheel dramatically.  

    “You were not forced to come,” Thranduil told her tersely, though Bard caught the way his lips turned up at the corners.

    “I’m not sorry I came,” said Tauriel at once, standing up straight again. “I just wish there were more places to stop and get some decent food.”

    “Not here. The Rhûn Sea is quite merciless when it comes to ports and harbours. It is most unfortunate for us that we cannot set foot in Greenwood, for it would grant us at least a little clemency, I’m sure.”

    “Well, where do we next go ashore?”

    “Dorwinion. It’s a trade centre so there will be plenty of opportunity to resupply and rest,” Thranduil said.

    “I’ve never heard of such a place,” said Bard.

    “There is not much to hear of it. I don’t even know if they are friendly to pirates or not, so we are in for an adventure.”

    “As opposed to what?” Tauriel said, and Thranduil and Bard chuckled.

    “Take over, Tauriel. I’ve had enough,” said Thranduil, and he relinquished the helm to Tauriel.

    Bard hesitated, but then followed Thranduil down to the deck where the others were lounging and playing games, all with the exception of Nimrodel and Mithrellas, who were dozing against each other on the deck by the forecastle. Thranduil smiled at them, and then turned to face Bard.

    “Spar with me,” he said

    Bard quirked an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to intimidate me?”

    “Hardly,” said Thranduil, drawing his sword with a flourish and examining the hilt with a delicate air. “Let’s see how much you have learned.”

    Bard was not in the mood to be toyed with, but he unsheathed his own sword with a resigned sigh. It was an old one that Rúmil had perfected when Bard’s old Navy rapier became too battered and light for him to wield. This new one was comfortably heavier and thicker and it was encrusted with a single, large emerald on the pommel. It did not match Thranduil’s in beauty or grandeur, but Bard had grown very fond of it all the same. It had won him many matches insofar.

    “I wasn’t aware it was a requirement of bedfellows to duel in their leisure time,” Bard said, folding his arm behind his back and holding out his sword.

    It was Thranduil’s turn to raise an eyebrow now. “Bedfellows? Is that what we are?”

    His penetrating gaze made Bard blush, but he stood his ground, waiting for Thranduil to attack as he refused to be the one to make the first move this time.

    Upon realising what was occurring on the ship, the other pirates spread themselves out on either side of the vessel, giving room to Bard and Thranduil and settling themselves down to watch, wagers already passing over their lips and between their fingers. Bard took a breath.

    “I only meant that we ought to keep our relationship civil,” he explained as he and Thranduil circled each other slowly.

    Thranduil hummed with amusement. “Pirates aren’t known for their civility, Bard. Besides, this is simply good exercise.”

    “I was always under the impression that you were above typical piracy,” Bard said as-a-matter-of-fact. “Call yourself a pirate as you will and sail under a pirate flag, but you don’t steal or pillage or wreak any sort of havoc. By all accounts, you’re a privateer working for the Queen.”

    “Privateering is a flawed concept,” Thranduil mused, still not making any move to strike. “It creates only the illusion of freedom; controlled freedom when freedom is an absolute. I may not act like a pirate, but declaring myself such means I’m free, and you can’t put a price on that. In any case, no one outside of this ship knows I’m working for the Queen.”

    While Bard found this reasoning to be sound, he did not agree that Thranduil was free. He could come and go as he pleased and do whatever he liked, but he was still obsessively driven by his quest for the gems and by his duty to the Queen. He had trapped himself in a mad plight to give back what was taken and, though his cause was just and Bard wouldn’t dare tell him to turn away from it, Bard wondered what the point in freedom was when you were still bound by such obligation. Where was the absolution in that?

    But, of course, Thranduil understood this and Bard knew that he spoke of the freedom of choices rather than freedom itself. Obligated though he might be to the task at hand, Thranduil had chosen his fate, just as Bard had chosen his.

    “Come on, lads!” Nimrodel shouted from her place on the steps. “I’ve got twenty silvers on you, little rat!”

    Bard grinned at his old nickname and then, finally, threw up his sword to stop Thranduil’s quick blow. It was unfair, he thought, that Thranduil could be so beautiful and so terrible all at once. He was light and fast on his feet and his sword seemed to blur only silver through the air. But Bard was not the timid fighter he had been when they first sparred. He parried and attacked just as swiftly, his few months of extra training with the crew serving him well.

    They danced across the deck, paying no mind where they went, but still conscious of where they placed their feet. They clattered up to the quarterdeck, circling Tauriel and the mizzen mast and accidently setting free one of the ropes that tied the foreyard. 

    Thranduil forced Bard up against the railing with a heavy blow and his back arched painfully over the timber has he struggled to hold Thranduil’s sword on par with his.

    “I can see now where your dexterity in the bedroom comes from,” Thranduil murmured, a mischievous glint in his eye.

    Bard let out a growl and heaved, pushing Thranduil back. With a flurry they tumbled back down to the main deck, the pirates bustling out of their way. It was difficult to know how to disarm Thranduil; he seemed to know every move Bard was going to make, even the clever ones he had learned from Nimrodel and Amroth. This didn’t come as much of a surprise, of course, but it was rather frustrating. Twice, Bard was nearly overpowered and had only preserved through sheer will. But his strength and agility were failing him as the minutes stretched on. Thranduil was too relentless.

    “They are matching wages,” Bard said, breathing hard as he attempted to overwhelm Thranduil to the ground.

    “Perhaps they have too much confidence in you,” Thranduil quipped, his breathing just as laboured and his hands trembling from the effort it took to stay upright.

    “Or too much in you.”

    Thranduil relinquished his hold and, with a deft swing, flung his sword at Bard’s waist, which Bard avoided by jumping back. Their swords met again, clashing noisily across the vast ocean.

    “You know, my dexterity in the bedroom might be hindered if you actually harm me,” Bard said.

    Thranduil laughed. “Bard, I would take my own life than see you hurt. Have you so little faith in me?”

    Bard ignored the way his heart fluttered at these words, threatening to distract him. “It is only that I am not sure I can save myself in time.”

    “But you did.”

    Bard knew he didn’t have much left in him to fight. The issue he had with sparring was that the aim was to disarm, not kill, which proved extremely difficult when his opponent was slightly more skilled than he was. He was only grateful that he had at least not been foolish enough to go easy on Thranduil.

    They were close again, their swords grinding as they both tried to overpower one another. Bard could feel himself losing. Thinking fast, he flicked his wrist to the left and cracked the emerald-encrusted hilt of his sword into Thranduil’s cheek. Their blades slipped and Bard was able to knock Thranduil's sword out of his grip, winning the match.

    The ship erupted with cheers and applause, the pirates banging their boots on the deck. Thranduil was on his knees, both hands clapped around the cheek Bard had pommelled.

    “Oh, no.” Bard joined him on the ground while the others all exchanged their bets, glints of silver flashing in the sunlight. It seemed a lot of them had bet on Bard to win and he felt a surge of pride despite himself. He rested a hand over Thranduil’s cheek, biting his lip. “Did I hurt you badly?”

    Thranduil made a face and jerked away from Bard. He spat onto the ground, and with the shining splatter of blood fell out a pearly white tooth.

    Bard held his breath to stop himself from laughing as Thranduil, horror-struck, picked out the tooth and gave a throaty groan.

    “That was a dirty trick,” he said thickly, spitting out more blood and holding the tooth up to the light.

    “I’m so sorry; I just didn’t want to lose,” Bard said pitifully.

    He cupped his hands around Thranduil’s face and started kissing him tenderly on the cheek, already remorseful for the bruise that would bloom there. Thranduil laughed softly and brought his lips around to meet Bard’s.

    “You will pay for that,” he whispered.

    Grinning, Bard got to his feet and helped Thranduil up as well. They sheathed their swords and Thranduil went to find a bottle of rum to wash out his mouth, followed by Lindir who was shaking his head and digging through his medical satchel.

    Nimrodel approached Bard, clinking silver coins in her hands happily.

    “You’re a reckless gambler,” Bard told her. “I nearly lost.”

    “But you didn’t,” Nimrodel sang, tucking the silver into a satchel around her hips. “I’m impressed with how much you’ve learned – who taught you that trick?”

    “No one. It just came to me,” Bard admitted.

    “You know, if you were anyone else, Captain would have flogged you for such a dirty move.”

    “I wasn’t aware flogging was practiced aboard this ship,” said Bard, following Nimrodel to Galdor, who was passing around rum and water. They took a bottle of rum to share and sat together by the port-side railing. Bard crossed his legs on a crate while Nimrodel swung herself onto a cannon in a very unladylike fashion, straddling it comfortably.

    “It isn’t, but that’s only because no one has really done anything bad enough to warrant a flogging. We’re a pretty tame bunch of pirates,” she clarified, uncorking the rum and taking a swig.

    “I suppose when you’re all friends, it’s not as necessary,” said Bard.

    Nimrodel laughed coldly. “Friends? Oh, no, we’re not all friends here,” she said.

    “No? I always got that impression. Who isn’t on good terms with one-another?” Bard asked.

    Nimrodel gazed around the deck of the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , surveying those who were still milling about after Bard and Thranduil’s duel.

    “Well, Lethuin and Galdor don’t like each other just… because they don’t, and Lindir will take every opportunity he can to pick a fight with Glorfindel, because Glorfindel is always irritating him. Let me see… Feren and Amroth don’t get on because of this ridiculous power-complex they have. They don’t actively quarrel, but it’s amusing to watch them flex and scowl at each other. And, of course, Feren doesn’t like Galdor purely because Lethuin doesn’t.”

    “Have any serious fights broken out?” Bard wondered.

    “Not yet, but there is a bet going around on Galdor and Lethuin; those two are just begging for an excuse to tear into each other,” Nimrodel concluded.

    “What is your wager?”

    “Fifty silvers that Galdor will empty whatever is in his pot onto Lethuin over something trivial. I don’t like my chances, but I’m optimistic nonetheless.”

    Bard laughed. “Who organises these bets? Surely someone must be managing all this money.”

    “Of course. Glorfindel is Quartermaster, so he distributes and takes care of it all. Captain doesn’t approve, but there’s not much he can do about it since it’s our money,” said Nimrodel.

    “How do you have so much money, anyway? You don’t pillage ships like normal pirates,” said Bard.

    “Sure we do. But we’re… ethical pirates. We only loot from the slave ships we board.”

    “The slave ships have money?”

    Nimrodel nodded. “The merchants carry some, and we sell their goods if they have any. And if we’re particularly bored or desperate, we’ll wait until they’ve been paid for delivering the slaves, free said slaves, then chase the ship down to take their money.”

    Bard’s stomach twisted. “Will we be doing any such thing on our way to retrieve the gems?”

    Nimrodel shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

    At that moment, Mithrellas came down the stairs from the quarterdeck, clutching a piece of parchment in her hand. Unlike Tauriel and Nimrodel, Mithrellas continued to wear skirts while aboard the ship, though the hemlines were tattered and showed off her ankles. She was completely singular among the crew – even more so than Bard – and didn’t take on any responsibilities beyond helping in the kitchen or scrubbing the deck. Bard wasn’t sure if this was by choice, or if Thranduil had simply been unable to find any other use for her, but she was much separated as a result. However, Nimrodel always included her in games and stories, and she was gradually becoming a part of the crew, just as Bard had done in his first weeks.

    Mithrellas came up very close to Nimrodel and whispered something in her ear. Bard could see Nimrodel’s toes curling in her boots as she swung her legs against the cannon. She nodded quickly and, when Mithrellas withdrew, the parchment had disappeared. Nimrodel watched the other woman leave, a glazed looked in her eyes.

    “Do you prefer women over men?” Bard asked abruptly, taking the bottle of rum from Nimrodel before she drank it all to herself.

    Nimrodel started, and then stared at Bard. “Of course I do. Why on earth would I ever want to be with a man?”

    “I just wondered. You seem to like Mithrellas a great deal,” Bard said with a shrug.

    Nimrodel smiled vaguely. “Have you ever been with a woman, Bard?”

    Bard blushed, but shook his head, staring down at the deck shyly.

    Nimrodel sighed wistfully. “Women… women are soft and gentle where men are harsh and brutish. A woman would never lay a commanding or hurtful hand upon you, nor would she seek to make herself better than another woman. The female sex is as tangible and kind as the sea on a clear day, but men are a thunderstorm you have to battle constantly in order to survive.” And then, before Bard could stop her, Nimrodel took his free hand and yanked it down, holding it to her stomach. She forced it to wander, mapping out her curves and the supple texture of her skin beneath her blouse. Her waist was higher than what Bard was used to, and it was pleasant to touch, but he snatched his hand away as soon as her grip yielded, blushing more furiously than ever. Nimrodel laughed. “I think men are made for the company of men, and women for women.”

    “Well, what if someone is made for both?” Bard suggested.

    “Oh, there are plenty who don’t have a preference, but I for one couldn’t possibly stand being with a man,” Nimrodel said.

    “I like men,” said Bard firmly, though he would not dare have said such a thing outside of the ship. He thought it strange that preferences were not scandalous on board like they were on land, for there were so many members of the crew sharing beds. But it was a comfortable sort of strange; one Bard had gotten used to without even realising it, because it wasn’t really strange at all.

    “Have you been with anyone else at all?” Nimrodel inquired.

    “No. No one else,” Bard murmured, his cheek burning again. “Has – has Thranduil…?”

    Nimrodel smirked. “He was always too invested in his mission, I think. When we made port, the others would take to the brothels like moths to fire, but not the Captain.”

    “You don’t say that kindly,” Bard observed.

    “I don’t understand him. I don’t understand the both of you. How in God’s name did you get him to look at you the way he does? It’s not that I find it displeasing, but he has never taken fancy to anyone before,” Nimrodel said.

    Bard stared at her, affronted. “What do you mean? He looks at me like he does everyone else.”

    “See? That, there; you’re incredibly dim, yet he loves you.”

    Bard made to defend himself against such an offence, but he backtracked quickly, trying to formulate a sensible response. “It’s just… well, I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

    Nimrodel raised an eyebrow. “I asked Captain a similar question, you know. He couldn’t explain it either.”

   And with that, she stood up from the cannon and went to join Mithrellas at the table where some of the others were playing Liar’s Dice. Bard watched as she looped an arm through Mithrellas’, and saw the way they look at each other; it was only the briefest of glances, but it lasted for a lifetime. Bard wondered if that was what Nimrodel had meant.

     Bard got to his feet and went into the cabin where Thranduil was sitting at his own table, pacing a map with a plotting compass and chewing on the end of a quill. The bruise on his face was already beginning to bloom, but it didn’t appear to be causing him much pain. Bard sat down on the other side of the table, fiddling with the hilt of his sword absently.

    “Do you love me?” he said.

    Thranduil’s hand slipped on the compass and one of the sharp points sliced into the map, tearing a hole right through the Rhûn Sea. For a long moment he simply stared at the damage, his lips slightly parted. But he eventually looked up at Bard, his eyes blinking rapidly.

    “Why – why are you asking me this?” he said stiffly.

    “I was talking to Nimrodel just now and she said that you loved me. It didn’t feel all that significant when she said it, but –”

    Thranduil closed his eyes, rubbing his knuckles deep into his sockets as though the conversation was causing him deep anguish.

    “I just – I just wondered,” Bard finished lamely, staring down at his hands. How childish he suddenly felt, in comparison to Thranduil, who was undoubtedly compromised by Bard’s foolish question.

    He looked up again and Thranduil was running his fingers through his hair, looking quite distressed and unable to answer Bard at all, because he kept opening his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

    Bard stood up hastily, the chair scraping against the deck.

    “I’m sorry. I should not have put you in this position,” he said, and he made to leave, hoping it wasn’t too late for either of them to save face.

    He was just about to open the door when Thranduil’s voice finally cut through the silence.

    “Yes.”

    Bard hesitated, his hand at the door handle and his heart in his throat. He stared at Thranduil and, in his astonishment, could only manage the weakest, most breathless of grins. Thranduil, too, was smiling, and his cheeks were dusted with pink. Bard turned away, lifting a hand to his mouth as he felt his smile grow wider and wider. When he glanced at Thranduil again, the Captain had returned to his map, smoothing out the tear he had made and looking just as flustered as Bard felt. It was probably best to leave it at that, Bard thought. Thranduil did not require a response, because Bard had never kept his feelings a secret. Perhaps he wasn't as direct about them as Thranduil had just been, but he knew that Thranduil knew.

    But Bard had barely opened the door to leave when an almighty cry reached him from the crow’s nest. Shielding his eyes from the blaring sun as he looked up, he saw Meludir flailing his arms madly to signal everyone’s attention, his telescope in one hand.

    “Ship ahoy!” he bellowed. “It’s the King’s Navy.”

    Bard’s heart shuttered to a stop and he glanced back into the cabin where Thranduil was already snatching his sword and hat from the table. He stuffed his feet into his boots and sprinted passed Bard, clambering up to the quarterdeck. Bard followed in an instant, tripping on the last step in his haste.

    There, far across the endless stretch of blue behind them, was a King’s Navy vessel, its white sails unfurled to full canvas as it ploughed towards them, much faster than the _Eryn Lasgalen._

    “We’ll never outsail her,” Bard said, staring with Thranduil towards the ship. “They’ll reach us with the long nine’s soon.”

    Thranduil bit his lip, watching the approaching ship with increasing anxiety. Bard didn't dare urge him to think faster, but the situation was currently calling for it. How had Meludir not spotted the ship earlier? Did the pirates truly feel so at ease even though Greenwood was just beyond the horizon? The Navy ship was coming from the south-west, returning home from Rohan. It seemed the cheery, carefree atmosphere of the past few weeks was at last at an end.

    After a long pause of tense silence, Thranduil turned to address his crew on the deck, who were all waiting apprehensively for orders.

    “Strike the colours,” he said.

    Bard cut across Thranduil, his face hard. “What are you doing?”

    “There is no way for us to gain an advantage here,” Thranduil hissed, shoving Bard aside. “This ship is built for speed, not warfare. We have to let them board us before we attack.”

    “You mean to lure them onto the ship under the pretence of a surrender? That’s risky. There’s no way we can –”

    “It’s the best option we have,” Thranduil interrupted. “These men know how to fight – hand-to-hand combat is our only chance of getting out of this alive. Strike the sails!”

    Bard did not approve of this decision, because the risk of being overwhelmed was too great, but there was nothing he could do except watch as the rest of the crew burst into action. Meludir climb down from the crow’s nest to help Lethuin take down the flag while everyone else furled the sails. The menacing, antlered animal crumpled to the deck in folds of black and white. Lethuin furled it to the mast, looking despondent. Bard had never seen it taken down.

    The _Eryn Lasgalen_ bobbed lazily on the water once the sails were drawn up. The crew waited with baited breath as the King’s Navy ship came steadily closer. There was very little movement on deck, as the pirates couldn’t be seen preparing for a fight. But a trained eye would have noticed Feren loading his pistols, and Mithrellas smuggling cannonballs in her skirts to Nimrodel, who was waiting to see which side the Navy ship would take the _Eryn Lasgalen_. Nobody spoke, but entire orders were being exchanged all the same. Bard was under the impression that they had all done this before.

    Thranduil relieved Tauriel from the steering and told her to go to his cabin and stay there.

    “I’m not going down there and hiding while everyone else fights!” she exclaimed hotly.

    “Tauriel, we are not arguing about this now,” Thranduil said furiously.

    “You’re letting Elladan and Elrohir fight, and they’re younger than I am! Is it because I’m a woman? Mithrellas and Nimrodel are staying!”

    “You’re too inexperienced,” Thranduil said.

    “Nimrodel and Bard have been teaching me. I can handle myself in a fight just fine,” Tauriel insisted. “I didn’t come on this voyage just to be sheltered from its dangers. I know what we’re up against; I understand the consequences.”

    Thranduil’s temper flared. “No, you don’t. You ask too much, Tauriel.”

    “You can’t stop me.”

    Thranduil was just about to take her by the arm and march her down to the cabin when Nimrodel ran up the stairs, glaring at him. Though she barely made it to his shoulders, Nimrodel was quite a fearsome thing to behold. Her eyes sparkled with anger and her curly hair was bristling like a crackling fire.

    “Let her fight, Captain,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “Tauriel is good with her daggers, truly.”

    “But if she gets hurt –”

    “Then that’s her own fault. She won’t be fighting alone; the rest of us will make sure she doesn’t get overwhelmed. You cannot shelter her from this. You’re not her father.”

    Tauriel looked very pleased with Nimrodel’s rebuttal, but Thranduil was fuming.

    “Fine! On your head be the consequences if she dies or gets captured,” he spat, and he turned around to face the Navy ship, which was starting to come up on the port side of the _Eryn Lasgalen._ Nimrodel and Tauriel retreated to the main deck.

    Bard stood with Thranduil, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “That was unworthy of you,” he said quietly.

    Thranduil shot Bard a filthy look.

    “You cannot protect her forever. She’s a good swordsman, and the only way for her to get experience is to actually be in a fight. She won’t learn any other way,” Bard added.

    Thranduil’s shoulders slouched in resignation. “I just don’t want her to get hurt,” he muttered.

    “You can’t protect her from all the bad things in the world. One day, she will get hurt, and perhaps in a much worse situation than this. At least this way you can be there for her.”

    Thranduil sighed and the leaned against Bard, resting his head on his shoulder. “I have only ever wanted what was best for the people I love, but all I do is lead them into peril.”

    Bard found Thranduil’s hand and knotted their fingers together. “No, it’s the other way around,” he said. “People follow you because they love you.”

    Bard felt Thranduil raise his head. He opened his mouth to offer a response, but Bard silenced him with a soft kiss, their noses bumping and Thranduil’s hair falling across Bard’s arm as he moved to brush his fingers against Thranduil's neck.

    By the time they broke apart, Nimrodel was loading the cannons on the port side while Meludir watched the Navy ship through his telescope, telling her when it was safe to move. They were being closely monitored, but the pirates were no fools. They would come out of this victorious, just as they had many times before.

    Thranduil straightened up and pulled out two pistols that he kept in his belt. He checked for bullets, loaded them, and then replaced them, ready for firing. Bard fingered his own pistol nervously, his heart leaping to his throat. This was going to be the ultimate test, he realised; fighting side-by-side with pirates against a faction he had once proudly served. But he wasn’t too worried. He was far prouder to be on the side of the rebels, where Thranduil was, and where his heart was.


	14. Debts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter definitely needs a trigger warning. I haven't written **graphic violence ******to this degree before, but I gave it the old college try and this is what came out. It was quite stressful to write, I must say. In any case, if you're squeamish when it comes to people dying, I would advise you skip the fighting part. I personally don't think I did the violence and gore justice, but that could just be my poor experience as a writer.
> 
>  
> 
> I also wanted to convey my apologies to those who have read the Silmarillion and know the characters better than I do. Whenever I need new characters, I pretty much just pick them out of a hat and hope it won't be a total disaster. I don't really understand the rules (if there are any) when it comes to applying elves from one fandom to the AU of another. But this one kind of worked out in my favour, I think.

 Elros and Bilbo were smuggled discreetly into Thranduil’s cabin, kept out of sight in case Elros’ position was compromised, or Bilbo was taken away. They could not take any risks where those two were concerned. No matter how confident Thranduil was in their upcoming victory, he would not lay waste to his two most important allies. Elros complained about not being allowed to fight, but Bilbo was perfectly content to sit and wait it out. From what Bard had last seen of them, they were playing cards on the floor under Thranduil’s table.

    Bard stood with Thranduil, facing the approaching vessel on the port side. The sailors on the Navy ship were all at stiff, sharp attention along the deck, their hands on the hilts of their swords and their backs rigidly straight in their blue uniforms. Like Thranduil, the Captain of the Navy ship stood in front of the crew. He was not someone Bard recognised. Hard-faced with short, greying hair and a rather impressive moustache, he surveyed the pirates with an air of disgust. It was clear he had held a respectable position in the Navy for a long time, but Bard had never encountered him during his months as a sailor.

    “Do you know who that is?” he asked Thranduil, trying not to move his lips too much.

    “Yes,” said Thranduil. Bard noticed a vicious, icy glare in his eyes. “That is Maeglin’s father, Eöl.”

    “Who?”

    “Maeglin was our friend,” Thranduil whispered, his voice almost quivering with rage. “And Eöl kill him. And Ecthelion. And Celebrimbor. He killed them.”

    “He killed his own son?” said Bard in disbelief.

    “I daresay he couldn’t stand the shame of having a pirate for a son. He was part of the… welcoming party that greeted us in Erebor… he…” But Thranduil could not go on. He was grinding his teeth so hard it was a wonder the sound of it was not carried across to the sailors.

    Bard glanced behind him at the huddle of pirates who were grouped in a position of surrender on the main deck. There, in their midst, was Glorfindel, his eyes so dark and full of hatred that Bard could not look for long. Feren, too, was scowling and cracking his knuckles, and Nimrodel had angry tears in her eyes. There was a bloody history here, and Bard was sorry to see it. There would be more than victory aboard this ship; there would be vengeance also.

    “Join the others, Bard,” Thranduil said.

    Bard did as he was told and went to stand beside Tauriel, who was restless on her feet, desperate to tear into someone with her blades, which were tucked into the harness on her back, the silver steel glinting in the setting sun behind them. Bard held onto her coat, just in case.

   The entire scenario was suspended on the water. The King’s Navy ship sidled up the port. An anchor was weighed, ropes were tossed over and secured, and a plank was slid through the railings of the two vessels. Thranduil’s expression was hard and his eyes flickered endlessly, taking in every variable of the Navy ship and of the upcoming circumstances. Bard could tell he was calculating how to best formulate their attack.

    Eöl boarded the ship first once it was safely tethered to his own. He looked very fine in his Captain’s uniform and his boots were smartly polished. He walked over to Thranduil, very smug at his supposed victory with his sword outstretched towards the other man. Thranduil said nothing; he did not even move as Eöl circled him threateningly, the tip of his sword inches from Thranduil’s chest.

    “How I hoped to be the one that caught you,” he said in quiet, gravelly voice. “How many years has it been, since our happy meeting in Erebor?”

    Thranduil held his position, barely even turning his neck to follow Eöl’s movements. Behind him, the pirates were twitching and shuffling with nerves, waiting for the signal to attack, but also trying not to look like they were up to something. Nimrodel, for example, was attempting to stop a bag of cannonballs from rolling down the deck, and Elladan and Elrohir were still loading their pistols.

    “It’s a wonder you haven’t died out here, Thranduil. The sea is no place for a pampered prince such as yourself. Lesser men than even you have perished,” said Eöl.

    Bard saw Glorfindel exhale shakily, his knuckles white on the hilt of his sword. Bard had never seen anyone look so livid, but he wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t imagine being Glorfindel right now; he didn’t _want_ to imagine it. Coming face-to-face with the person who had killed someone you loved was a real cruelty.

    “Lesser men than me? Then the real wonder is how _you_ have lasted so long,” Thranduil finally spoke.

    Bard might have laughed if it weren’t for the seriousness and tension of the situation. Eöl laughed, however, and without another word he waved two fingers to bring his sailors onto the _Eryn Lasgalen_. One by one, they filed onto the deck, drawing their swords and aiming them at the pirates. Bard tightened the grip on his own sword, but otherwise made no move to withdraw or look threatened. They were slightly outnumbered; it was nineteen against almost thirty.

    _Give the signal now_ , Bard thought desperately as Thranduil turned around to face Eöl properly. His eyes were narrow and his jaw set with fury. He wanted to have the last word first.

    “I’m surprised you are so willing to come peacefully. Have you at last decided to pay the price for your sins?” Eöl said.

    “The sins in question are yours, Captain,” said Thranduil coolly. “I have brought you on board to deliver your debt to my crew.”

    “Debt?” Eöl spat, his fist clenching. “What debt?”

    “A life for a life. I always wanted to ask, Captain, what did your wife say when you came home and told her that you had slain your only son?”

    Eöl looked bewildered at this abrupt change of hand in the conversation and seemed to have lost the ability to formulate his self-satisfied comments. He opened and closed his mouth several times before he growled angrily and barked, “Arrest them!”

    The sailors took one step forward, and then Thranduil clicked his fingers. The tiniest of sounds, and it created absolute chaos. All at once, the pirates burst into a flood of attacks – pistols, swords and daggers flying in every direction. Nimrodel ran across the cannons, lighting them all with inhuman speed. One after the other, they exploded on the deck, the cannonballs colliding with the other ship and tearing it to pieces. The sailors all tried to retreat, but even as they moved back towards the port side, Nimrodel, Amroth and Orophin were loading the cannons again, firing them without mercy.

    Bard barely had time to think before a sailor was upon him. Their swords clashed and banged, their movements a flurry. The sailor was inexperienced – much like Bard had once been – and Bard’s sword was through his stomach in a matter of seconds. The sailor choked on blood and it dribbled down his front before fell like a stringless puppet.

    Breathless, and his heart racing with a mad, screaming adrenaline, Bard pulled out his pistol and aimed for the head of another sailor. _Bang_ , and the young man fell to the deck with a sickening thud, the side of his skull raw and exposed in the sun. Bard swallowed the bile that rose to his throat and looked across the deck towards Thranduil. The Captain’s sword was soaked in blood, oozing red onto the deck next to Eöl’s lifeless body. He looked dangerous and mad, as though such a kill had given him pleasure, and Bard had reason to believe that it had.

    A second passed, and Thranduil wiped his sword on the sleeve of Eöl’s shirt before cutting through the body of sailors who, despite their numbers, were struggling to overwhelm the pirates. With their ship destroyed and the plank pushed into the sea, they were being driven into the water, or else to their deaths, by savage swings of cutlasses or pistols at close range to heads and chests. As Bard fought fiercely with a yellow-haired sailor, he spotted Tauriel on the quarterdeck, taking on two sailors at once. Her daggers twirling and flashing in the sun, she danced across the deck, her eyes wild with a sinful passion and a grin on her face. Bard took a moment to slash his sword through the sailor he was fighting and, when he looked up again, the two on the quarterdeck were dead and Tauriel was leaping over the balustrade and into the fray, her hair now a different kind of red, rippling crimson against the orange sunset.

    It was impossible to make sense of the fighting. Bard had to duck several times to avoid losing his head, and twice he was knocked down completely, forced to scramble to safety before he was trodden on. All around him, the pirates were brutal in their duels, tearing into the sailors with a nearly cannibalistic nature. Their hatred towards those who served the King surpassed simple animosity; it was pure bloodlust. They _wanted_ these sailors dead.

    Crossing blades with another man, Bard was forced against the ship’s railing. Without a moment’s pause, he grabbed the sailor by the front of his uniform and tossed him overboard, and for a second was reminded very strongly of the rats he had once condemned to drown.

    Turning back to face the ship, Bard caught glimpses the others. Nimrodel was crouched over a sailor, her hands around his head as she broke his neck and then removed a dagger from his shoulder, standing up and already seeking out her next kill. Amroth was wielding an enormous axe, cutting through a sailor’s cutlass and bending it in half before lobbing off his head, which was sent rolling across the deck. Glorfindel and Elrond were both locked in intense swordfights, and Meludir was dancing around a distressed sailor, firing his pistols almost at random and laughing.

    Then, Bard was distracted by a truly enormous man that was thundering his way. It seemed the Navy cook had join in the fighting, wielding two menacing kitchen knives. As wide as he was tall and his apron stained with blood, he smiled threateningly at Bard and advanced on him. Swallowing a fresh wave of nausea, Bard threw up his sword just in time to meet the descending knives. In his effort to hold his position, he dropped his pistol to use both hands on his sword. It fell with a clatter and, before he could even think about retrieving it, an unidentifiable foot kicked it away. Cursing, Bard pushed against the cook, tossing the knives back with a great deal of strength.

    The cook started to assault Bard with such ferocity that Bard began to feel faint. He parried again and again and again, sweat drenching his clothes and forehead. He needed help, and he was man enough to admit it, but the pirates were too busy with other sailors to notice he was failing. And what a bad way to go, he thought. Death by an enraged cook with kitchen utensils was hardly dignified.

    Backing further and further away from the cook, Bard suddenly bumped into somebody among the crowd of fighting people. Panting and heaving, he glimpsed dark skin and tattoos and said;

    “Feren… if you could.”

    Feren, who was toying with a sailor by simply dodging his attacks, drove his cutlass through the man’s gut to be done with him and then turned to see what Bard wanted.

    “Fuck!” he cried, and without warning his pistol shot went right through the cook’s eye socket.

    That, unfortunately, did not stop the cook. Though he howled and doubled over in agony, clutching his bleeding eye, he was immediately spurred on with a fresh surge of adrenaline, his knives only blurs of silver.

    “Did someone forget to feed this thing?” Feren bellowed, taking a few steps back and cocking his pistol again.

    “Give me that!” said Bard, and he snatched the gun out of Feren’s hand. He pointed it at the head of the cook and pulled the trigger.

    “Well, that got him,” said Feren as the cook crumpled to the ground, shaking the deck with his mass. Bard had got him right in the forehead; he could see the bullet wedged into the skull.

    Bard exhaled, handed Feren his pistol back, and then ducked under a swinging cutlass, suddenly aware of how exhausted he now was. He was amazed he could even stand, for he swayed slightly as he stood up straight again and his vision blurred dangerously. Even the sound of the fighting felt distant; like it was coming from a dream.

    A hand grabbed him by the arm, then, and yanked him out of the way of another sword. Jerked back into reality, Bard instinctively blocked an incoming attack and concentrated instead on the sailor in front of him. Someone else had their back to him, and Bard caught sight of silver hair brushing across his shoulder.

    “Are you all right?” Thranduil asked, panting as he crossed swords with a Lieutenant.

    “Is now really the time to ask?” Bard said.

    He blocked the sailor again, and with a sharp twist of his wrist, slid the tip of his sword through the sailor’s jaw. The skin here was thinner than Bard was used to and his sword went all the way up through the sailor's mouth, his hand hitting his chin. The man spluttered, blood spraying out his mouth and over Bard’s arm as he choked and gurgled on it. Bard pulled out his sword hastily and the sailor dropped to the floor, next one of his comrades.

    “I feel sick,” Bard said.

    “That was the last one,” said Thranduil quietly.

    Bard looked up, and saw that the fighting was at last over. Staring around, he saw the sea of bodies that surrounded the pirates, all fineries now stained with blood, like a sea of blue and red and silver. Orophin was yanking his sword out of a body, shaking it vigorously as it appeared to be stuck, and Erestor was wiping his daggers on a sailor’s coat. Tauriel was heaving a trembling Mithrellas to her feet and Galion was pushing a body off one of his shoes.

    “Wait, there’s one more,” said Meludir. He was peering over the edge of the ship. There, in the water, a sailor was swimming desperately to freedom.

    “Shoot him,” said Thranduil at once.

    Bard groaned. “Let him escape. Surely he deserves the dignity of staying alive.”

    “He won’t last long in this water without any ships to hail,” said Thranduil coldly. “We are doing him a favour.”

    Bard turned away, unable to watch as Meludir accepted a long-barrelled musket from Rúmil and aimed it at the swimming sailor. A loud, final bang echoed across the water and when Bard looked again, the sailor had vanished.

    “Is anyone hurt?” Thranduil called out, turning around in circles to examine his crew. Blood flecked his hair, and there was a deep cut on his right arm.

    A few people raised their hands.

    “Is anyone dead?” Thranduil said, his voice breaking.

    One person raised their hand.

    It was Feren, and his expression was blank as everyone stared down at his feet where Lethuin’s lifeless body lay.

    Bard’s breath caught as a single, piercing scream echoed across the ocean. Meludir ran forward and threw himself over Lethuin, his body wracking with sobs. Thranduil was pale as he took a step forward, but then clutched the railing to steady himself.

    Then, a groan escape the body beneath Meludir. He screamed again and scrambled off Lethuin, whose chest was rising as he drew breath. The entire ship sighed with relief.

    Feren fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He grabbed Lethuin by the front of his coat and shook him roughly.

    “I’m going to kill you!”

    “My leg…”

    Lethuin’s leg was sticking out at an odd angle and it was bleeding profusely. Lindir hurried over, sporting a great many wounds of his own, and immediately pressed a rag to Lethuin’s leg to stem the flow of the blood.

    “If we don’t stop the bleeding, he will definitely die,” he murmured. He gestured to Feren. “Take him to the Captain’s cabin. By God, my work is cut out for me.”

    Feren lifted Lethuin easily into his arm and trudged towards Thranduil’s cabin with Lindir. A few other injured pirates trailed after them, moaning and limping.

    Thranduil leaned against the side of the ship, holding a hand to his stomach.

    “Are you hurt –” Bard began to say, but he was cut off when Thranduil grabbed the front of his bloody shirt and crushed him into a bruising kiss. Bard tasted blood and sweat. He bit down on Thranduil’s lip, drawing more blood as if to make it a final act of violence. Bard realised then that being a pirate meant all his decisions had to be met with violence. There was no peace in righteousness, only bloodshed.

 

    The hours following the fight were tense and not easily forgotten. As a red sun sank below the horizon, Bard – who was one of the few uninjured pirates – helped with salvaging food and supplies from the wrecked Navy ship, as well as the arduous task of shifting the dead bodies over to prepare them for burning. The last of them to be tossed over was Eöl, but not before Glorfindel spent his remaining energy kicking the Captain’s head into the deck. As if the ship wasn’t stained enough with blood and remorse, Glorfindel made it a great deal worse. Flesh and innards splattered across the timber and Glorfindel kept throwing his foot down, even when there was nothing left to destroy. Nimrodel, crying as she did so, had to drag Glorfindel away so that the body could be disposed of. Elrond and Elros took it across the plank to the other vessel, their complexions rather green as such a gruesome sight. There were pieces of brain wedged into the deck.

    Bard was tired. His muscles ached. He had just contributed to the murder of men he had once stood with; men he might have called friends if he had continued on the path he had set himself as a boy. If things had been different, he himself might have been one of those fallen sailors, being piled onto a ship like sacks of flour, waiting to be burned.

    Thranduil emerged from his cabin just as Elrond and Elros returned to the ship. His shirt was off and his arm had been cleaned and bandaged.

    “You ought to be tended to,” he said to Bard.

    “What?”

    “You’re bleeding,” Thranduil said, pointing to his chest.

    “I am?” Bard looked down and saw, indeed, that there was a large gash through his shirt, exposing raw and bloody skin. It wasn’t deep and he couldn’t feel it, so he wasn’t even sure when he had procured it.

    Bard rubbed his face, feeling the scruffy beard there, and then went to Thranduil’s cabin where half a dozen other pirates were being looked after by Lindir, who hadn’t even had a chance to clean himself up yet. He had washed only his hands and face and was currently busying himself with Orophin, who had been shot through the leg. Gazing around, Bard observed everyone else’s injuries; Tauriel was sporting a deep cut on her forehead and was clutching a hand to her shoulder. Haldir was leaning against one of the cabin walls, holding his hand to a freshly bandaged stomach, and next to him lay Lethuin, his head on Feren’s lap and his leg wrapped tightly in cloth. Amroth was also marked with a great many cuts and wounds, though he didn’t seem to be in much agony, and Elladan was sitting in Thranduil’s chair with a swollen, twisted ankle propped up on the table. In his lap sat his lute, and he started to play a low, melancholy tune to pass the time while he waited his turn.

    Bard sat down next to Tauriel on the table, sighing heavily.

    “Are you okay?” she asked.

    “I’m fine,” said Bard tonelessly.

    “That can’t have been easy, fighting your own men like that.”

    Bard blinked several times before saying, “They aren’t my men.”

    They didn’t speak after that, neither of them able to find the motivation or energy for conversation. The cabin felt mournful and desolate and smelled strongly of blood and sweat. Elrond and Galdor eventually came in to help Lindir, carrying a huge pot of boiling water to clean wounds with. Elrond picked up a rag and began tending to his son, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

    “Is it broken?” Elladan inquired anxiously, ceasing his playing.

    “Of course it is,” Elrond snarled.

    He smacked Elladan around the head and the boy scowled. “It wasn’t my fault. I tripped.”

    “You’re supposed to watch where you place your feet. It’s the first rule of fighting.”

    While they bickered, Lindir finished with Orophin, tying a bandage around his now bullet-free leg and moving onto Tauriel. He cleaned the cut on her forehead and then asked to see her shoulder. When she removed her hand, Bard gasped. The blade of a short knife was protruding out of her skin, blood trickling down her arm. The hilt had evidently come loose during the fighting, leaving the silver blade imbedded into her flesh.

    “Does that hurt?” Bard said.

    Tauriel shot him a withering look, but didn’t comment. Sighing, Lindir wrapped his right hand thickly with a protective rag and then braced the other one against Tauriel’s uninjured shoulder. With an impressive tug, he pulled the blade out of her body with one smooth motion. Tauriel cried out as it came free and Lindir quickly applied pressure to the wound.

    Bard and Amroth were the last to be patched up. Lindir was very irritable by this point and he tied the bandage around Bard’s chest a bit more tightly than was necessary, making him wince. He waved Bard away and went to check on Lethuin, who was having his forehead dampened with a wet cloth by Erestor. He looked pallid and fevered; it seemed the relief at his survival was only a temporary one.

    Bard left the cabin in a daze. Outside, the air also smelled of blood, mixed with the salty sea. Meludir was moving about the ship, lighting the lanterns and humming to himself. Elrohir was helping his brother with a crutch and, over on the wrecked Navy vessel, Nimrodel and Haldir were pouring pitch on the deck and the bodies.

    Up on the quarterdeck, Thranduil was overseeing his crew. He looked just as exhausted as Bard felt. He was washing his hair in a bucket of water, rinsing out the dirt and blood and staring absently out onto the Navy vessel. Bard climbed the stairs to join him.

    “Let me,” he said.

    Thranduil obliged. He sat down at the table and Bard set the bucket atop it. He ran his practiced fingers through Thranduil’s hair, tugging out the caked filth.

    “I wish things didn’t have to be this way,” Thranduil murmured.

    “I think many would say the same after such a fight,” said Bard.

    “It’s not just that,” Thranduil went on. “Those sailors… they were just following orders, and they died because a man they might once have been expected to follow had to turn to a life of piracy.”

    Bard frowned. “I don’t see it that way. They followed orders; they knew the risks. That’s what sailors do. It’s not your fault.”

    “It _is_ my fault. We’re the bad guys, Bard, don’t you see?”

    “But we’re not bad people,” said Bard.

    Thranduil didn’t respond, so Bard finished washing his hair in silence. Nimrodel and Haldir were coming back to the _Eryn Lasgalen_ ; the Navy ship was ready to be burned.

    “Why must we burn the bodies?” Bard said softly, squeezing the water from Thranduil’s hair. “What about their families? They ought to be taken home.”

    “No one can know we were here,” Thranduil said, getting to his feet. “It is safer for us this way.”

    He went to the wheel and called for the foresails to be unfurled. The plank was removed and the tethers cut loose and Thranduil steered the ship away from the other one. When there was decent yards between them, Bard watch as Amroth pivoted a lantern across the water. It landed and shattered on the deck of the Navy ship and, within seconds, it burst into wild flames, licking every inch of the ship with hungry tongues. The pirates watched it burn, standing in a respectful silence as the ship blackened and crumbled and, eventually, sank beneath the waves, hissing and bubbling.   

   

    The pirates did not sleep that night, all of them too troubled by the afternoon’s events, and by the fate that was yet to be determined for Lethuin, whose fever refused to break. It was some time before dawn when Bard, evacuating his position in the crow’s nest, entered the cabin to find Lethuin in a blind frenzy. Drenched in sweat and moaning, he writhed on the floor. Feren held him still as Lindir removed the bandages from his leg. Pus and blood oozed from an unsightly wound and filled the cabin with a rancid smell. Whatever weapon had hit Lethuin, it had simply sliced a chunk out of his leg, almost exposing the bone. Bard covered his nose against the smell; it had festered badly.

    Nimrodel came in, carrying another pot of hot water and a fresh set of rags. She set them down on the floor beside Lethuin and immediately began to dab his forehead with a damp cloth.

    “Rot is setting in. That was a very dirty blade,” said Lindir desperately. “He’s going to die.”

    Feren’s face was hard, his teeth clenched. “Can’t you do something?”

    “I have _been_ doing it, but those cook’s knives were laced with something.” Lindir chewed his lip, wiping his forehead with a shaking hand. “The only way… it might not even work...”

    “What? Whatever it is, you must try,” Nimrodel said at once.

    “It will have to come off,” Lindir said.

    “What?”

    “His leg. It’s the only chance he’s got.”

    Bard blanched and made at once to leave, but Lindir called him back. “We need your help, Bard. Put him on the table.”

    Reluctantly, Bard helped Feren lift Lethuin onto the table, pushing away maps and papers to make room. Feren was shaking terribly, his face pale. Always so resolute and strong, he was now terrified and vulnerable. It was not easy for even Bard to see Lethuin this way, so he couldn’t imagine what it was like for Feren.

    “Hold him down with his legs off the table,” Lindir said.

    From a chest on the floor, he retrieved a tourniquet and menacing-looking saw. It made Bard feel sick just to look at it, but he kept his hands on Lethuin, as did Feren. Nimrodel grabbed a bottle of rum from the sideboard near Thranduil’s table and uncorked it. She persuaded Lethuin to sit up – though he was barely coherent – and fed him the rum, forcing him to drink as much as possible to dull his senses. He was slowly becoming aware of what was about to happen.

    Feren was at Lethuin’s foot, holding his injured leg horizontally off the table. Lethuin squirmed and whimpered and Nimrodel poured more rum into him, her eyes brimming with tears.

    It was sickening to watch. Lindir strapped the tourniquet around Lethuin’s thigh, above the knee, and pulled it tight. Nimrodel stuffed a piece of cloth into his mouth and then, without a second to pass for afterthought, Lindir started to saw.

    Bard closed his eyes against image. He felt only Lethuin’s frenzied movements and heard only his muffled screaming. Lindir worked quickly, cutting around the leg through the skin, then the muscle, and then at last the bone. It set Bard’s teeth on edge as the metal went through the bone and marrow, grinding and slicing. With a jolt, Lethuin’s leg came free, and Bard opened his eyes in time to see Lindir tossing it to the floor like an unwanted vegetable. Blood trickled from what was left of Lethuin’s right leg and the poor man was heaving and crying, almost choking on the cloth in his mouth.

    But Lindir wasn’t done. He grabbed a pair of thin scissors and tweezers and began to cut at the tendons inside the leg, snipping around the bone to create a gruesome cavity of flesh and muscle. Then, with a thin needle and silk, he sewed the skin together over the exposed bone to create a smooth and – given the circumstances – very neat stump. It was all over in a matter of minutes. Lindir removed the tourniquet, bandaged the leg securely, and walked away to wash his blood-soaked hands.

    For a moment, there was silence, penetrating and fetid. Then, Feren took the cloth out of Lethuin’s mouth and the man started to wail, sitting up and mourning the loss of his leg. Nimrodel took a deep breath, and then promptly vomited onto the floor. Lindir sighed from where he was washing his hands in the corner.

    Bard went outside, feeling numb and cold with shock. The pirates still awake were staring at him, having no doubt overheard Lethuin’s crying.

    “What happened?” asked Tauriel.

    Bard shook his head and went downstairs to the bunks. With a deep groan, he climbed into the nearest one, not caring whose it was. His hair was filthy and he could smell smoke from the burning ship in his tunic. He wanted to be on land again; he wanted to forget what had happened that day. But there was no forgetting it. He would feel the guilt for ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rest assured, I wasn't going to have anyone killed during this fight. I know that, realistically, one or two of them would have died, but I'm not ready for that kind of commitment. As a result, I now know way too much about 17th century amputation techniques. But I always wanted someone to lose a leg, so I had fun deciding who it was going to be. I also enjoyed using the f word for the first time. It was like filling the swear quota in Marvel films so that they can still rate them PG-13. Anyway. Thank you for reading!


	15. Hands and Feet

How Bard ever managed to fall back into a regular routine after the events concerning the sailors, he didn’t know. For the first couple of days, it felt as though things would never return to normal. But they did. The plunder from the Navy ship was stored below deck, the flag was hoisted once more, and the _Eryn Lasgalen_ sailed peacefully on, leaving behind no sign of a fight or Navy vessel.

    The mood of pirates, however, was significantly dispirited. Nursing injuries and heavy hearts, they were no longer cheerful when they congregated around the fire at night to eat and drink, nor were they persuaded to spar or play games or dance. It was, all in all, a very depressing affair, and there was still weeks of sailing ahead of them.

    Lethuin had taken the loss of his leg very hard indeed, as was expected. He mourned his lack of mobility, spending entire days sitting on the quarterdeck staring at the horizon, not speaking to anyone. Even Feren, who did everything in his power to ease Lethuin’s grief, was being shunned and ignored. But he did not once complain. If anyone else had treated Feren so dismissively, he might have shouted or taken a pistol to them, but not Lethuin.

    “You should talk to him,” Nimrodel told Glorfindel one day. “You’ve lost your hand; you understand best what he going through.”

    Glorfindel frowned. “A hand is very different to a leg, Nim.”

    Nimrodel sighed and pushed Glorfindel forward all the same. After a few brief words, Lethuin already looked a bit more cheerful. He smiled as Glorfindel told a joke, pointing to his prosthetic hand and grinning. Bard smiled too.

    “Perhaps someone in Dorwinion can help him,” he suggested.

    “I think Rúmil is trying to fashion him a wooden leg, actually,” said Nimrodel brightly. “He’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

    Bard nodded and Nimrodel walked away below deck. Bard turned to watch the ocean; it was blue and swirling grey for miles in every direction. Without land in their sights, it felt as though they would never see the end of their journey. If it wasn’t for the rushing wind in the sails and lapping waves at the keel, it was difficult to believe the ship was moving at all. The horizon never changed, except for the rising and setting of the sun each day, which reminded Bard only of the hazy rhythm in which the days were passing, each one blurring into another.

    It was five minutes of staring blankly at the water before Bard noticed ominous clouds approaching, tumbling and bestial in the already overcast sky. He hurried to Thranduil’s cabin and knocked on the door before entering.

    “There’s a storm approaching,” he said.

    Thranduil was sitting as his desk as usual, pondering over a book and series of maps. He had a blanket over his shoulders and his hair spilled out over one shoulder. He nodded wearily. “It will be a rough night.”

    Bard hesitated, and then walked over, chewing his lip uncertainly. He and Thranduil had spoken very little since the fight, both of them unable to come to terms with each other. Bard was concerned for Thranduil, for he knew his guilt was festering, and he knew that he was beginning to truly regret bringing Bard on board his ship, given the dangers they were already facing. Bard knew that Thranduil agonised over keeping the crew safe, yet was still forced to ask them to risk their lives.

    But Bard would not have it. He had made his choice, and he did not regret it, and he was sure the rest of the crew felt the same.

    Glancing over to the bed, he cleared his throat and said; “Want to roll around a bit before the storm hits?”

    Thranduil looked up, his expression blank for a moment. Then, he smiled and got to his feet. Bard hastily bolted the door and went to join Thranduil in bed to share a secret happiness for a little while, or a lengthy while, it didn’t matter as long as it was there.

    Bard was startled by his hands; these hands he had balled into fists to bruise and hurt and kill were hands that could still be gentle and kind against Thranduil’s skin. He felt like a liar, pretending his hands had not caused such devastation, and were only eager and sincere in their actions. But Bard knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t lie. There was no forgiving or forgetting, so if his only mercy was to be a liar, then he would take it and be a liar.

    They rolled around for an hour, almost two, and then dozed afterwards in the warm and quiet as the rain began to hit the windows of the cabin. Bard watched huge droplets of water splatter against the glass from across Thranduil in the bed. The storm clouds had arrived, casting a bleak, half-night over the ship, rumbling threateningly. There were running footsteps outside as the rest of the crew set to prepare for the oncoming gale and rain.

    Thranduil was also looking out of the window, a small crease between his eyebrows as he thought. Then, he shifted himself further among the blankets, burying his face in Bard’s chest. 

    “Let’s never leave,” he murmured through the sheets.

    “I’m not certain your crew would appreciate it,” said Bard.

    “I don’t care,” said Thranduil softly. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

    Bard’s heart sank at these words. “You can’t give up now. We are so close.”

    Thranduil didn’t speak for a moment, but adjusted his position so that he lay on his back again. Bard moved his arm around him, his fingers immediately finding silken hair on the pillows.

    “It felt this way last time,” Thranduil said quietly. “I was so confident the gems were in Erebor, and that it could not possibly be a trap. It hadn’t occurred to me just how much I was asking my crew to sacrifice on my behalf. We had sailed almost without hindrance for four years, and then all at once half my crew were slaughtered because I had been foolish enough to sail them into danger.”

    “That wasn’t your fault, and you can’t change what happened,” said Bard.

    “But what if I’m doing it again? What if this is another trap and I’m walking in blindly just as I did last time?”

    Bard shook his head. “You aren’t. We know the risks this time, and we will be ready for them.” 

    “I just don’t want any more people to die,” Thranduil whispered. “I keep thinking about what Galadriel said.”

    “I thought you didn’t trust her judgement,” Bard reasoned carefully.

    “Oh, I do – I absolutely do. Everything she has ever told me has come true in some way, and that frightens me. The way she spoke about you; it sounded as though you are meant to die.”

    Bard stopped playing with Thranduil’s hair, considering this for as long as he dared stay silent. Galadriel’s prediction had shed a rather negative light on Bard’s future, but she couldn’t possibly have meant him to die? Surely her predictions were not so precise as to foresee someone’s death before the time came.

    Troubled by Bard’s silence, Thranduil tilted his head up to look at him, his brow furrowed.

    “Do you think it could be my fault?” he said.

    “No,” said Bard firmly. “I am here because of the decisions _I_ made.”

    “But I forced you aboard my ship. I blackmailed you into joining my crew,” Thranduil protested.

    “And you gave me the choice to leave. In spite of all your threats, you said I could leave of my own volition, and I chose to stay. Stop blaming yourself, Thranduil, it’s giving me a headache,” said Bard.

    Thranduil pouted at this and turned over, hitching himself on his elbows to properly look at Bard. “Please, take this seriously.”

    “I am taking it seriously,” said Bard, who was starting to feel rather nettled. “I know you’re afraid of your friends getting hurt, but none of them were forced to come on this voyage. Just like me, they made a choice, and they chose to follow you. It’s not about living or dying, it’s about doing what’s right in spite of the consequences.”

    Thranduil looked as though he wanted to argue further, but he fell back onto the bed with a groan of resignation instead. Bard chuckled, but a rumble of thunder interrupted him. He glanced out of the window again where the rain was coming down faster than ever, trying to break through the glass. The steady _drip, drip, drip_ of a leak could be heard somewhere in the cabin.

    “I’m going to help steer the ship, okay?” Bard said, and he started to push the blankets off.

    But Thranduil tugged him back, back into the folds of the sheets and into his arms and the soft, orange candlelight and comfort that wasn’t the howling wind and rain outside. It was hours and hours before the storm passed, and they spent every minute of it pretending it wasn’t there at all.

 

    The few remaining weeks before arriving in Dorwinion were met with ill tempers but calm seas. It was well into autumn now and the winds had picked up considerably, though this did little to alleviate the steadily growing unease aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_. Dirty, tired and sunburnt, the pirates looked keenly upon the horizon for any signs of land; any sign of reprieve. Their food stores had run low and the water barrels were nearly empty, leaving them only rum and wine to drink on most days with very little nutritious food.

    With this in mind, it was to tumultuous cheers and applause that Meludir called land ahoy from the crow’s nest. He swung around the mast happily, pointing far, far across the blue water to a strip of mountains on the very edge of the world. Bard, who was at the helm, had seen it too, and he sighed with relief.

    “It seems I will be hard-pressed to return my crew to the ship once we make port,” said Thranduil, observing the pirates on the deck as they continued to whoop and throw up their hats.

    “Be reasonable,” said Bard, leaning against the wheel. “We’ve seen nothing but water for two months. Surely you are keen to make port as well.”

    Thranduil grimaced. “Believe me, I am. I only pray we will be safe in this country.”

    Bard nodded sagely. “We had best hope they do not fire upon us at the sight of your colours.”

    “Don’t be silly, Bard. This is a Navy ship; we will sail under Navy colours.” Thranduil leaned over the railing and called out to Nimrodel to strike the colours and hoist the Navy flag that had been salvaged from the ship. Within minutes, the merry green and white colours of Greenwood were flapping in the wind.

    “Quite unsightly, wouldn’t you say?” Thranduil commented.

    Bard nodded his agreement. “How long until we arrive?”

    “Perhaps another day or two, if the winds favour us,” said Thranduil. He turned to smile at Bard. “We can find you a hat.”

    Bard rolled his eyes. “I’d prefer new boots.”

    He looked down at the ones he wore; the leather was cracked in places from the sun and there was a hole in the toe of his left one. Bard realised these boots were the only thing he still owned from his past life. If he gave them up, he would finally have nothing left of it.

   

    With Dorwinion in their sights and fresh food and water on their minds, the spirits of the pirates was greatly lifted and, as a result, the following two days passed as quickly as a brief summer breeze. All too soon, they were upon the small country, which was flanked by hulking green mountains. The shoreline was dotted with ports and docks and lanterns swung in the dusk, blinking orange light through the settling fog. There was no point making port just yet as Thranduil announced his intention to careen the ship in the morning (this was met with bemoans of grief, which he ignored), so the anchor was weighed a few miles off the shoreline. While Thranduil took a longboat to land with Galion and Glorfindel to inquire after careening permission, the sails were furled and the lanterns lit and the pirates spent some time around a fire, drinking the last of the good wine and rum and enjoying a peaceful night before the rough day ahead.

    Bard sat beside Lethuin, who was at last having a prosthetic leg fitted to what remained of his limb. Rúmil was adjusting a hinge on the wooden prosthesis, squinting in the dim light through his large, round bifocals. He twisted a lens experimentally to magnify a screw.

    “Will it affect the healing at all?” asked Lethuin fretfully, bending his knee so that he might inspect his partial limb. It had almost completely healed. Lindir had removed the stitches a few days previously and declared his work quite satisfactory, though Lethuin had been inclined to disagree, considering he was missing a leg. But his period of grief was over, and he was starting to come back to his usual self. He did complain more than usual, however, which Bard would never have believed to be a possibility until it was.

    “It won’t tear the wound, if that’s what you mean,” said Rúmil, pushing the bifocals onto his head. “I’ve been workshopping this baby with Lindir; he think it’s very good.”

    He held up the prosthesis proudly. Like Glorfindel’s, it was made from steel and leather, but did not hold a shape to feet or toes. It was, for all intense and purposes, a peg leg, and Bard was greatly humoured by the sight of it. Rúmil tugged at the cords around the top half, loosening it enough so that the leather strap could fit comfortably around Lethuin’s thigh. He then tightened it and held out the leg across his lap.

    “Now, it will be prone to come off it you act like a fool, but it’s more secure than it feels. It’s just a prototype for now, but I’ll do some poking around in Dorwinion; they might have the supplies I need to make a better one,” Rúmil said.

    Lethuin whistled impressively and, very carefully, he got up from the barrel he was sitting on. Everyone fell silent to watch as he set two feet on the ground and took a measured, but triumphant step forward. Then another, and then another. He limped heavily and moved slowly and without elegance, but he was walking again.

    With a jovial roar, Feren ran over and heaved Lethuin into a bearish embrace, swinging him around with his legs in the air. Then he gently set Lethuin down on the deck again, both of them grinning.

    “Now you can’t slack your duties anymore,” said Nimrodel with a smirk.

    Lethuin made a rude hand gesture and set to walking about the ship by himself, testing out his new leg while the others fell back into conversation.

    It was an easy, drawn-out night, and when Thranduil, Galion and Glorfindel returned, they were pleased to announce that Dorwinion traded with pirates and that they were free to haul the ship to the shore in the morning with the high tide.

   

    It was exhausting work to careen the ship. At the crack of dawn the crew was up and tidying the ship, securing anything that might fall or break and making sure the cannons weren’t about to come loose from their ropes. Thranduil steered the ship to the beach where the high tide had come in, sweeping in and out against the sand near a copse of palm trees. With a great thrust of his arm, he spun the wheel and the ship lurch to the right, falling in line with the shore.

    “Get out and haul her!” Thranduil shouted from the helm.

    There was an ungainly cry of displeasure, but one piercing look from their Captain set the pirates to the task, taking the thick ropes from around the masts and flinging them over the port side. Bard splashed down with the others to help pull the ship further on land. It was especially difficult as the high tide reached the pirates’ waists and when the waves came in some of them fell over and tumbled beneath the water, choking and spluttering as they clung desperately to the ropes. The ship didn’t seem to be moving any closer to the beach but, after an arduous two hours, the crew managed to heave it close enough to the trees where the ropes were pulled down the expose the ship’s belly. It took every man – even Thranduil – to careen the _Eryn_ _Lasgalen_. Heavy planks of wood were wedged vertically under the keel while the ropes were secured to the trees. The palms groaned against the weight of the ship and the ropes creaked in the fair wind, but the crew declared their work done for the morning and set about erecting tents to sleep in.

    “Look at this!” Amroth said in exasperation as soon as he saw the belly of the ship. “Holes everywhere! Rot and barnacles! When was the last time you careened her, Captain?”

    Thranduil offered Amroth an impatient flap of his hand and went to assist in pitching a tent. It was an endless day of work. Bard had been looking forward to going out and exploring the nearby town, but by the time the tents were pitched and furnished with tables and bedding, the tide had gone out and it was time to tend to the ship. Using metal-toothed brushes and flat-edged pickaxes, half the crew set to work removing the barnacles from the keel, using pulleys to heave themselves up to where the higher ones were.

    Meanwhile, Bard took some people with him to go into town to get some supplies for repairs and food for the night. He, Nimrodel, Tauriel, Amroth and Mithrellas trudged their way through the beach and up the sand dunes. They all of them took a moment to finally revel in the steady ground and change of scenery. Ahead of them was a dirt path and trees and houses and no water except behind them. Nimrodel sighed with happy relief and looped her arms through Mithrellas’.

    “I hope we stay here for a while,” she said, gazing around.

    Bard nodded. Dorwinion looked promising; it was warm and sunny and very green. It reminded him of Greenwood, but without the milling soldiers and high-towered buildings. Dorwinion did not appear to hold a kingdom or parliament; it simply was, and as they made their way up the dirt path and into the small harbour town, they saw people running errands and talking to one another and not so much as batting an eyelid at the newcomers.

    “I think this place is like Imladris, you know?” said Nimrodel.

    “Perhaps not entirely,” Mithrellas added with a disgusted look, sidestepping what appeared to be a puddle of sick in the street.

    She was right. For all its freedom and lack of government, Dorwinion was nothing like Imladris. It was bigger, and not nearly as clean. Children ran almost naked through legs and fences, screaming and laughing, while heavily busted women waved down from balconies trying to lure in customers and all around was the lurid smell of farm animals and sweat and alcohol. It was as a pirate port ought to be, Bard thought.

    “I thought Imladris was the last free pirate port,” he said.

    “Only between Eriador and Rhovanion,” Amroth explained. “But Elrond likes to boast that that it is last free port in Middle Earth because of its convenient location. Imladris is in the middle of everything – the map, countries, regions – and yet it remains free, while Dorwinion is on the outskirts of nothing with no one to challenge it.”

    “I thought it was under Rhûn’s protection,” Mithrellas piped up.

    Amroth scratched his beard thoughtfully. “See, I was also under that impression, but if it was owned by Rhûn, we wouldn’t be allowed to trade or weigh anchor here.”

    “Is Rhûn truly that bad?”

    “It hasn’t anything on Mordor, but it’s not the nicest place in Middle Earth. You wouldn’t want to be a pirate in Rhûn, unless you are of the country itself. They don’t take kindly to strangers.”

    “Have you been there?” asked Bard.

    “Hell no,” said Amroth, looking scandalised. “And this is as close as I ever want to be.”

     They walked on in silence for some time after this, taking in the sights and views of the town, mentally marking shops and taverns and people. Amroth, Bard and Nimrodel went one way to buy supplies for the ship while Mithrellas and Tauriel went another to buy food. After an hour, they met up again and started back down the dirt road to the beach, accompanied now by a pig on a lead held by Tauriel. Mithrellas was carrying a basket full of fresh fruit and vegetables. Bard took an apple, biting into it and cherishing every mouthful. It was a blessing to be on land again.

    The pirates were all overjoyed by the sight of the fresh food when it arrived and Galdor immediately set about preparing it. Nimrodel was not happy to see the pig be led away to be put down, but her complaints ceased as soon as the smell of roast pork permeated the air, compelling her and the rest of the crew to work harder and faster. The cat, Asfaloth, sat beside Galdor while he turned the pig on a spit, its tail swishing through the sand excitedly.

    Thranduil had sat himself in the shade of his tent, slumped back in a chair as he observed a map at his desk. Bard joined him, setting down a tankard of fresh water he had brought from the well.

    “Do you ever rest?” he asked.

    Thranduil looked up at Bard wearily. “It is difficult to estimate our voyage once we set sail again. We have a destination, but not a location. There is no telling when we will find the dragon once we reach the north.”

    “What are our options?” Bard motioned helpfully.

    “Ideally, we should speak with Thorin Oakenshield. If he can be reasoned with, there is a chance he will give up the exact location. But I’m too afraid to risk another siege in Erebor. I doubt he has let down his guard since our last visit. Even without my father’s men at his disposal, he has an armada of ships to fortify that mountain. It would be a miracle to make it through without being gunned down.” Thranduil sighed heavily, and then drained his water in one.

    “Well, perhaps Bilbo can be of use. We can send him in as a third party; I have reason to believe he has influence over Oakenshield.”

    Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Influence? What sort of influence?”

    Bard shrugged a shoulder in a non-committal, yet suggestive kind of way and smirked to confess his suspicions.

    Thranduil opened and closed his mouth several times, gave Bard a penetrating stare, and then said; “Are you pulling my leg?”

    Bard laughed. “No! I’ve spoken to Bilbo a lot and the way he talks about Oakenshield… it’s like he’s trying to hide something.”

    “Even if what you’re saying is true, Bilbo isn’t our ally. If we send him in there without an escort, he probably won’t come back out,” Thranduil reasoned.

    “I could go with him,” Bard offered. “Thorin Oakenshield has never met me before, so we can gain the advantage.”

    Thranduil’s expression was incomprehensible for a moment, but Bard deciphered it quickly enough, as he had so easily learned to do. Thranduil was impressed, and it made Bard’s heart surge with a self-satisfied pride. It didn’t matter that Thranduil often expressed his amazement towards some of Bard’s tactics (for he never failed to be amazed); Bard appreciated it every time.

    “I’ll consider it for now. At the moment, we need to focus our attention on repairs and supplies. We can decide what to do once we’re at sea again.”

 

    The afternoon fell into a long and chilly evening. The high tide rushed back onto the beach and the pirates abandoned their work at last, favouring their tents in the sand dunes with the first proper meal they’d had in weeks. They grouped around two fires, chatting happily and drinking and playing music, all of them comfortably exhausted from the arduous day. The ship was nearly ready to be anchored in the docks. At low tide the following day, they would treat the wood, let it dry, and then cast out in the evening.

    “Will we stay here very long?” Tauriel asked Thranduil as she attempted to tame her wild hair with a comb.

    “A week, at least,” said Thranduil, slicing an apple contently. “We are pressed for time, but I’m not keen to set sail too soon.”

    “It’s nice here,” said Mithrellas. “I heard Dorwinion has superb vineyards.”

    “Vineyards?” Galion piped up, his yellow eyes sparkling eagerly.

    “Don’t tease the drunkard,” Glorfindel admonished.

    “We could visit these vineyards,” said Thranduil, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not leaving without wine, so I don’t see why not.”

    Galion pumped a triumphant fist in the air and then returned to patting Asfaloth, who was sleeping in his lap. Getting a similar idea, some of the pirates moved to retire, Feren being one of them. Beside him, Lethuin had removed his leg and was bending his knee experimentally, massaging the end of the limb.

    “I’m beat,” he said. And, with an exuberant yawn, he flung out both arms towards Feren and said dramatically, “Carry me, my love?”

    Feren snorted. “You can hop,” he said, and he departed for his tent.

    Look quite crestfallen, Lethuin very carefully got to his foot. It appeared to be quite a strain on his knee and as soon as he was upright, he lost balance and toppled backwards onto the sand with a yelp. Elladan and Elrohir laughed at him, but Glorfindel and Nimrodel both got up to help.

    Thranduil also stood and left for his tent, his fingers brushing Bard’s shoulder as he went. Bard sat a while longer in the sand, watching the fire crackle and writhe, its hazy smoke dancing up to the stars. He wondered absently at the upcoming journey north and of how much longer he would have left with Thranduil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i'm waffling a bit in this fic, but it's important to me that you all gain a solid impression of the pirates, even if its just the main squad (aka the original six) and i hope i'm achieving it. if you have a favourite, please tell me in the comments! i'd love to hear about what you think of the elves as pirates, and if you want any backstories, i'd be happy to provide them as i never get to talk about the crew but they all have backstories and personality traits that mean a lot to me. but, anyway, thank you again for reading!


	16. Two's A Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're finally going to see Galadriel's predictions start to unfold.

It was three days after the pirates had made port when it started happening. Sidelong glances in the street as they went to the tavern, and women and children on the docks gawking at the _Eryn Lasgalen_ none too discreetly. Bard and Thranduil were going into town to buy new clothes with several others when they noticed the abrupt change in the local’s behaviour. Bard raised an eyebrow at a woman who was staring at them from outside a brothel. She blushed when she caught him looking at her and fumbled for the door handle to let herself back inside.

    “Thranduil, I think they know who we are,” Bard murmured.

    Thranduil lowered his hat over his eyes. “It certainly seems that way. They must have recognised my ship.”

    “I wasn’t aware you were so renowned,” Bard teased.

    Thranduil scowled. “I didn’t think I would be in these parts. These people shouldn’t be concerned with the affairs of the westerners.”

    “You don’t think they’ll turn us in, do you?”

    “Even if they did, we aren’t staying long enough to be caught by the Navy, and they can’t arrest us without a reason. We’re safe, but it would not be beneficial if the King found out we’ve been here,” Thranduil said bracingly.

    However, beyond ogling and whispering, the townspeople did not bother the pirates while they wandered the shops and streets. Bard got a new pair of boots and several shirts and he ignored the fluttering eyelashes of the seamstress behind the door of the counter. It was not until they returned to the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , their arms laden with goods, that the real reason of the attention they were receiving was finally explained.

    “Captain, there’s a woman here who wants to see you,” said Feren as soon as Thranduil had boarded the ship.

   “Who?”

    Feren shrugged. “She didn’t give a name.”

    Thranduil’s curiosity turned to irritation at once. “Then why is she still here? I haven’t the time for a meet-and-greet.”

    “I know, but she claims to have information. She – she knows who you are.”

    “Ah.”

    Removing his hat and coat, Thranduil approached the stranger, who was leaning casually against the ship’s balustrade. Reaching barely five feet in height, she was stocky, bright-eyed and richly brown with a mass of thick black hair interwoven with braids, and on her chin she sported a handsome beard. Her face and ears sparkled with several gold piercings as she turned to face Thranduil, grinning.

    “Who are you?” Thranduil demanded.

    The woman grinned even more widely. “A friend, if you like.”

    “Forgive me for being sceptical, but I’m not sure I believe that since you have not provided a name,” said Thranduil tersely.

    “Dís,” said the woman, holding out a many-ringed hand.

    Thranduil did not accept it, but comprehension seemed to dawn upon his face at finding out her name. Without a word, he turned to Bard and Glorfindel and motioned them forward with a jerk of his head. At once, the four of them went into his cabin, leaving the rest of the pirates in confusion.

    “What can I do for you?” said Thranduil as he shut the cabin door behind him and took his seat at the table. Bard and Glorfindel moved chairs to either side of him so that Dís sat alone opposite them. This tactic did not seem to bother her, however, as she dropped herself carelessly into the chair and gazed around at them, simpering superfluously.

    “It’s more what _I_ can do for _you_ ,” she said.

    “And what assistance could you possibly offer me?” Thranduil said, eyeing her suspiciously.

    At this, Dís dropped all pretence and gave a heavy sigh. “Word has been travelling about the pirate Captain who dares to try and steal gems from the leviathan in the north. You’ve not been idle, Thranduil, nor have you been careful. People are starting to figure out who you really are.”

    “What does that have to do with you?” Thranduil snapped, though his eyes flashed with worry at these words.

    “The sooner you get those gems, the better. I want to help you.”

    “Why would you help us?” Glorfindel reiterated.

    Dís chewed her lip for a moment, looking agitated. “My idiot brother, and our idiot father, asked that dragon to guard all manner of jewels and precious things, as well as your gems. But he is becoming greedy, and clever. He demands more gold and valuables as… insurance. As long as Thorin pays him to guard what he already has, he won’t ransack the city.”

    “I fail to see what this has to do with me,” said Thranduil crisply.

    “Thorin wants the hoard back. You are not the only outsider who seeks to reclaim their deposits. Kings and Queens and all manner of Lords are asking for their stuff back, but Thorin can’t return anything to them beyond his own halls.”

    “Why not simply kill the dragon?” Bard prompted.

    Dís shook her head. “Thorin doesn’t have the manpower to withstand such a beast. He needs help.”

    Thranduil gave a short, harsh laugh and then leaned back in his chair. “So, what, now Oakenshield wants to work together? No way.”

    “It’s not his fault your gems got given to a dirty great dragon,” Dís retorted heatedly. “He was doing his job and blaming him is only going to makes things worse. Besides, he doesn’t even know your story. He doesn’t know why you’re so determined to reclaim those gems.”

    “And you do?” said Thranduil.

    “Word travels differently among pirates. Your voyage is famous,” said Dís, an unmistakable tone of admiration in her voice.

    “You’re a pirate?” said Bard.

    “A privateer, by definition, but I sail under my own flag. Thorin grants me clemency, but I fear that position will not last much longer. His right to rule is being overlooked.”

    Thranduil’s brow furrowed. “Overlooked? Surely his rule is unchallenged?”

    Dís shook her head sadly. “The Council are debating the matter and speaking over him. They want to ally themselves with King Oropher, and considering the army such an alliance would provide, Thorin is well past considering it.”

    Bard watched as Thranduil’s eyes narrowed with growing mistrust. He steepled his fingers and observed Dís from over the top of them. “And why shouldn’t he? They would work well together.”

    “Because I know about you!” said Dís in exasperation. “And I know what you’re trying to do. I’ve been telling Thorin to delay these propositions, but he cannot stand his ground for long. He has no choice but to yield to a vote unless he has a good reason to withdraw the alliance. He cannot take control of the Council without evidence.”

    “I take it that’s why you are here,” said Thranduil with an air of finality.

    “I promised Thorin I would bring you to him so that you might explain what’s going on. Be the ally in lieu of your father,” Dís implored.

    “Why should I? I have no army, nor influence.”

    “But the Queen has your back if you succeed in reinstating her!”

    “Thorin can fall with my father’s men for all I care. Let them ally, and then crumble beneath her reign.”

    Dís bristled, her dark eyes piercing Thranduil’s blue ones. “If Thorin falls, so does Erebor, and so does Dale! You will condemn my people to death and be no better than Oropher!”

    Bard expected Thranduil to lash out at such a declaration, but he simply clenched his fists and scowled at the table. Dís was right and he knew it.

    “Fine. Say I meet with Oakenshield and tell him my story; who is to say he’ll believe it? I am surprised you believe it,” he said.

    “He trusts my judgement. And even without it, you have Bilbo Baggins. If he will vouch for you, Thorin will agree to an alliance,” Dís assured.

    “And what am I getting out of such an alliance? Can Oakenshield get passed the dragon and hand me my gems? How do I know I won’t be giving more than I’m receiving?”

    Dís looked irritated at this. “ _Pirates_ ,” she spat.

    Thranduil smiled unkindly at her. “You should know better than to try and scam a pirate out of more than he deserves. Don’t take me for a fool, Dís.”

    “Perhaps it is I who is the fool, for thinking you could be reasoned with,” she fumed.

    Glorfindel cut in. “I think it’s worth looking into. Whether or not we join forces with Oakenshield, this alliance with the King needs to be stopped, Thranduil. Together they can overpower the Queen completely, white gems be damned.”

    “I agree,” piped up Bard. “As King, Thorin would be a powerful ally, and that is something that cannot be used against us. Thrain might have obeyed Oropher’s wishes, but Thorin is a new King who has sworn no allegiance to anyone just yet. We need him on the right side.”

    Thranduil rubbed his chin, processing this. Then, he turned back to Dís. “How do I know this isn’t a trick?”

    “You have only my word as Captain,” said Dís seriously. “But believe me; there is more at work here than just your gems. The world is tearing at the seams – Dale is in political ruin, Rohan and Gondor are at civil unrest – with Mordor snapping at both their heels. Alliances are needed now more than ever. You have a chance to make a real difference, Thranduil, not as a pirate, but as a good man.”

    Thranduil was silent as he considered all this. He ran his fingers through his hair and over his face while his blue eyes darted from Bard to Glorfindel to Dís.

     “Very well. I agree,” he finally said.

     Bard gave a discreet sigh of relief. Dís smiled broadly.

     “When do we sail?” asked Glorfindel.

     “Next week, with any luck. I only just got here and I still need to undergo repairs and resupply. You’ve been a hard man to find, Thranduil. Your ship is like a ghost.”

    Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Do not try and immortalise it as such, Dís. It’s just a ship, and my story isn’t one for the history books.”

    “Why not? I daresay you’ll be one of the few pirates whose life does not end in a hanging,” said Dís.

    “I would not be so quick to discredit that,” said Thranduil, getting to his feet. “Send word when you wish to sail. We will follow you.”

    Dís stood up as well, smoothing out her coat graciously and making for the door with the other three.

    “Be careful while you are here,” she added, putting her hat back on. “As I said; word has been spreading, and there’s a price on that pretty head of yours.”

    Bard watched her go, feeling nonplussed. He glanced at Thranduil, who had a calculating expression on his face. His eyes met Bard’s briefly and they exchanged the same concern; what if they didn’t make it in time to stop the alliance? What if it really was a trap?

    Thranduil shook his head, and said to Glorfindel, “Speak to Bilbo, won’t you?”

    “Why me?”

    “He likes you.”

    Thranduil returned to his cabin, and Bard heard the bolt being slid through the door behind him

    “Do you trust Dís?” he asked Glorfindel.

    Glorfindel frowned, watching the little woman depart the docks below. “It’s not really a matter of trust anymore. We must take what she said for what it is, and assume she has no reason to lie to us. There is every possibility she is leading us into a trap, but her word seems to be good enough for Thranduil, so it must be good enough for us too.”

    “But what if it is a set up? What happens if we get caught?” Bard fretted.

    “We’ve gotten ourselves out of sticky situations before. It’s a risk, but one Thranduil is willing to take.”

   

The following week in Dorwinion was slow and calm. The pirates enjoyed their time ashore, swimming and shopping and drinking. With the ship repaired and supplies replenished until the holds were bursting, they were once again eager to set sail. The night before they were to do so, Dís stopped by with some of her crew. Thranduil was not keen on introductions, but he accepted that a friendship (of sorts) needed to be formed between the two crews.

    Whether they called themselves privateers or pirates, the sailors of _Durin’s Bain_ were far more fearsome than Bard had anticipated. Decked in thick leathers and furs, they wielded menacing axes and swords and their wild, matted hair flew untamed in the wind. Unlike Thranduil’s crew, Dís was the only female member of hers, and her men held her in high esteem. She was at least a foot shorter than all of them and utterly singular, but no less intimidating.

    Each member of her crew was introduced by name, to which Thranduil repaid the courtesy, and then all thirty-three of them mingled.

    Bard decided at once that he did not like Dís’ crew. They were rude, arrogant, and dramatic, showing off their weapons and skills and lineage (which was no doubt impressive to their part of the world, but meant nothing to Bard, or anyone else). Glorfindel appeared to enjoy their company, however, and he made fast friends with Bofur and Nori.

    The youngest of the crew were Dís’ sons, Kili and Fili, who were twelve and seventeen, and the former of whom would not stop ogling at Tauriel.

    “He keeps staring at me,” she hissed to Bard over her tankard. “It’s like trying to shake off a puppy.”

    “I think he fancies you,” said Bard with a sly smirk.

    “Stop it, Bard, or I’ll cut out your tongue. He’s half my age!”

    “Not quite. Give it a few years.”

    Tauriel punched Bard in the shoulder, but shared the grin he gave her.

    “It’s a good thing not to sail with them,” she added. “There will be no living with this lot. I’ve already forgotten most of their names.”

    Bard nodded earnestly and watched as Nimrodel, Feren, and two of Dís’ men (Bard wasn’t sure who) admired one another’s pistols, while Thranduil and Elrond sat much like Tauriel and Bard did, watching with their noses upturned over their tankards.

    Keen to have the ship to themselves again, the pirates of the _Eryn Lasgalen_ bade goodnight to Dís’ crew and made preparations for the following morning when they would set sail. Before she left Dís exchanged a few words with Thranduil on the docks. He nodded several times and then returned to the ship.

    “What did she say?” said Bard as he wound a long rope into a coil.

    “There are only three months before Oakenshield must come to a decision about an alliance. We are to flank her, but take the front line if there is any danger. It will be a long voyage, but we are better supplied this time,” Thranduil clarified.

    “How far is it?” Bard inquired.

    “Another two months, at least. But summer is over; the days will be cooler and easier to manage,” Thranduil said.

    Bard sighed, rubbing his now clean-shaved chin and staring away from the docks across the expanse of water. “I never realised how big the world was.”

    Thranduil followed his gaze. “How long were you a sailor before you joined me?”

    “Barely a year. I have never been so far away from home.”

    It often hit Bard the true impact of what he was doing. His life had changed so drastically in one split-second decision that he sometimes had trouble keeping up. A sailor one day, and a pirate the next, risking his life for a quest that went against everything he had once stood for, it was astonishing to think he had been a pirate for several months now. He wondered at the tangibility of life, and death, and all things in between. He was no philosopher or reader of thinkers, but he wondered how his life might have played out if he hadn’t stood up to Thranduil all those months ago. Would he be happier? Promoted? Married? Dead?

    Bard turned his gaze to Thranduil and smiled. He was sure at least that he couldn’t possibly have been happier in any other life.

    “What?” said Thranduil, looking at Bard curiously.

    “Nothing,” said Bard, still smiling. He picked up the coil of rope and went to add it to a pile near the forecastle.

   

    They set sail early the next morning, chasing the small _Durin’s Bane_ out of the docks of Dorwinion and watching the shoreline fall into the horizon. Dís’ ship was small, but mighty, and it ploughed through the water with great speed and endurance. Bard could see her flag slapping in the wind; black, with a red dragon in full flight.

    “Is that the dragon we are to face?” Bard said.

    “I think so,” Thranduil replied.

    “I always wondered about it,” Bard continued. “By all rights, it’s a sea serpent, but those accounts we read said it could breathe fire. How does that work?”

    Thranduil frowned. “I don’t know. You ought to ask Erestor, he may be able to explain it.”

    So Bard did. He found Erestor in the chart house, as usual, with Asfaloth and a stack of books on the table.

    “The entire matter is up for debate,” he said, shifting the books aside to make room for Bard. “It is less of a ‘how and why’ than it is a ‘why not’ circumstance. You ask how it is possible, but really you should ask why it shouldn’t be. Just because the dragon is a sea dweller does not rule out his ability to breathe fire. One does always not exclude the other.”

    “But consider it from a biological standpoint,” said Bard, feeling exasperated by Erestor’s choice of words, which always muddled him up. “Surely any fire the dragon could conjure would be extinguished by the water in its body.”

    But Erestor shook his head. “You are looking at it from the wrong angle, Bard. I think Smaug is a fire dragon who just so happens to live in the water, not the other way around. Call him a sea serpent or a leviathan all you like, but I’m not convinced that is what he truly is.”

    From beneath a map, he pulled out the accounts of Smaug, which had been long discarded after the pirates determined his location. Erestor riffled through them and extracted a drawing. He handed it to Bard.

    “The evidence is all here; what sea serpent has need for wings of such size? And I see no gills, nor webbed feet, or fins. Whatever Smaug’s reason, I believe he simply prefers the water, even if it is not suited to his species.”

    “Could it perhaps be a combination of dragon types? I remember reading in the accounts that it was capable of breathing under water,” said Bard.

    “Well, imagine the size of him! Lungs like that could surely contain enough air to let him swim for long enough to assume he is breathing,” Erestor argued patiently.

    Bard chewed his lip. “I don’t like this uncertainty. It is hard to know what we are up against.”

    “Even with every proven fact at our disposal, we still would not know until we face him. Much is uncertain, but clinging to what we _think_ we know only offers us a false sense of security.”

    Bard thanked Erestor and left him to the chart house, still thinking very hard. The only conclusion he could really come to was that it didn’t matter what kind of dragon Smaug was, as long as it was able to be killed.

 

    In every direction, all Bard could see was water… again. If the circumstances were different, he may not have minded so much, but as it stood it was unnerving to see nothing on the horizon. The pirates were constantly uncertain of what lay before them, or behind them.

    The _Eryn Lasgalen_ and _Durin’s Bane_ sailed in steady harmony for about two weeks, passing cargo ships heading to Dorwinion without quarrel. Thranduil was not enthusiastic about taking the route back towards Greenwood, but he kept his ill-temper towards his home in check as he steered the ship north-west.

    The pirates were not idle during their departure from Dorwinion; with their new allies always a few hundred yards in their sights, they spent time jumping from ship to ship, mingling and attempting to make friends. It was challenging, as the temperaments of people from Erebor differed greatly to that of Thranduil and his men, and personalities clashed badly. But Bard soon grew to like Balin and Bofur, and Fili as well as he was a little closer to Bard’s age, though still too mischievous and talkative for his liking, and preferring of the company of Elladan and Elrohir. Worse than him was his brother, who tailed Fili like a trained puppy, always so unsure of himself. Bard thought he was too young to be aboard a ship, but when he brought this up with Dís, she simply shrugged and said she’d had little choice in the matter, for where Fili went, Kili was sure to follow.

     Despite the alliance, a rift continued to spread between the two companies as the pirates’ mistrust of Dís and her crew did not waver. They vowed to take her word as a trap until proven otherwise, and she accepted this attitude wholeheartedly.

    “I would be concerned if they showed no suspicion,” she told Bard one day. “One must always be wary of strangers, and better still wary of allies, for that is where corruption can truly fester.”

    “Do you have experience with this?” Bard offered casually.

    “Of course I have experience. You don’t sail for as long as I have and not witness betrayal among sailors and pirates,” she said.

    Bard eyed her for a moment, processing this. “You think Thranduil ought to be wary of his crew.”

    Dís made a defensive gesture with her hand. “I only find it very odd how much he trusts them to remain loyal. I have never met so many pirates who trust each other so completely.”

    “Their quest is unifying,” said Bard. “To name these men and women as pirates would be too much of a generalisation. They are friends, and they are fighters.”

    “You speak as though you are not one of them,” said Dís.

    Bard hesitated at this, wondering why he had phrased it like he had. Then he said, “I wasn’t always. I am the most recent to join, and so I am slightly apart from them. I used to be a sailor in the King’s Navy.”

    Dís raised her eyebrows in surprise. “The King’s Navy? What made you side with Captain Thranduil?”

    Bard risked a glance towards Thranduil, who was sitting with Elros outside his cabin, talking quietly. Sensing someone was watching him, Thranduil looked up from the barrel they had perched a map on and met Bard’s gaze. He smiled almost shyly, and then returned to the map.

    “It’s a long story,” said Bard.

    “Well, with any luck you’ll live to tell it one day,” Dís concluded, and she hurried off to rescue the cat from Kili’s grasp.

    Bard allowed himself a moment’s pause before he saw Thranduil waving to him. Bard went over.

    “– deploy forces once we arrive. She’s resourceful, and can do it without the King’s knowledge,” Elros was saying.

    Thranduil waved an impatient hand over the map, which was marked with several X’s. “I still think we should stick to a smaller group when the time comes. We need to use our heads, not just brute strength. But enough of this, we will discuss it further once we reach Erebor.”

    Thranduil smiled up at Bard, folding the map carefully.

    Elros rolled his eyes. “I’ll take my leave.”

    “I wanted to speak with you,” Thranduil said, getting to his feet as Elros walked away.

    Bard supressed a grin and nodded, following Thranduil into the cabin behind him.     

    “You know, I don’t think it’s necessary to stand on ceremony in front of our new friends,” Bard teased, already taking a few steps towards the bed.

    “What do you mean?” said Thranduil, who was by the table and making no move to join Bard.

    “Er – nothing,” said Bard, coming to the quick conclusion that Thranduil did actually want to speak with him.

    He waited. Thranduil paced the room for several moments, which made Bard weigh the seriousness of what he was about to say. He held his breath in anticipation, his anxiety climbing up through his belly.

    “I need a favour,” Thranduil finally said.

    Bard exhaled. “Is that all?”

    Thranduil gave him a meaningful look and then continued to pace. “Much is uncertain, and I need to take every variable into account. There are loose ends that need tying up and – and I would entrust this task to no one else.”

    “What task?” said Bard, who was fast becoming impatient with Thranduil’s dawdling.

    “The return of the gems to the Queen. I need someone to – to take my place, should anything happen to me in the struggle to retrieve them,” Thranduil proposed.

    “Oh,” was all Bard could manage. His heart was squirming uncomfortably somewhere near his stomach.

    Thranduil went over to him, until their feet were touching on the floor and Bard could feel Thranduil’s warm breath on his lips.

    “They will be in a chest,” Thranduil said. He moved his hands to his neckline and withdrew one of the necklaces that hung there. He pulled it over his head and down onto Bard’s.

    “The key?” Bard whispered, taking it in hand. “Why would you give me this?”

    “For safekeeping,” said Thranduil.

    Then, Bard understood. He took a step back. “You mean not to live through this,” he said, his mouth dry.

    “I’m only taking the necessary precautions,” Thranduil said calmly.

    But Bard was losing his head completely.

    “Why me? Why not Glorfindel, or Nimrodel, or _anyone_ else?” he said shakily, clutching the old key in his fist.

    “Because I know you will succeed where I will fail,” Thranduil insisted.

    “No,” Bard cried, wrenching the key off his neck. “You cannot ask this of me. I will do anything for you, but not this. I will not accept that you won’t survive.”

    Thranduil closed the gap between them once again, his eyes wild and stern as he grabbed Bard by the shoulders. “Bard, this is bigger than us, don’t you understand? You said so yourself; it’s not about living or dying, it’s about doing what’s right.”

    “But this is different,” Bard raged.

    “Different how? Because it’s me? I’m no one special, Bard. I have only ever been a means to an end,” Thranduil said, releasing his hold.

    “But you’re the reason we’re all here. The reason _I’m_ here,” said Bard.

    Thranduil shook his head. “If that is what you truly believe, then you shouldn’t be here at all.”

    And with that, he unbolted the door and left the cabin, Bard alone and with his fingers still wrapped around the key in his hand. He looked down at it through teary eyes. Though he had seen it many times before, he always admired the intricate details of the hilt and iron. It was beautifully crafted, and it felt like it was burning his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i could actually kick myself for how many characters i've thrown into this god awful fic. but i'm going to keep interactions to a minimum because i honestly don't have the patience. hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	17. Three's A Crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I know it's been ages you guys, but I got sidetracked w/ TV and a new job and an actual not-fanfiction story that jumped me. But that's not important. I was actually spurred on a bit more by the two most recent comments I got on this fic, which reminded me gently that it does still exist and does need updating. So thank you for that. And thank you to everyone else who commented! You're all my faves.  
> I'm happy to say that our tragic heros do make up (out) with each other, and that there's another little romance starting to bloom in the background (tell me if you spot it!) because I was rummaging around in the trash the other day and found a new pairing that I liked. Put all the ships on this ship, I say!

The key stayed around Bard’s neck despite his contempt towards it. He wasn’t accustomed to wearing jewellery and it got in the way of sparring and rigging sails, but he wore it to make Thranduil happy. And to keep his promise. Bard had learned some time ago that he could not deny Thranduil anything, and while he knew this to be a foolish disposition to have, he couldn’t help but wonder if the feeling was mutual. 

    Beyond working together to keep the ship running, the two of them had lapsed into an uneasy silence. Bard was angry – at Thranduil, and himself – and troubled by what Thranduil had said. It made him reconsider his position aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_ ; was he truly there for the quest, or was he only there for Thranduil? Did it matter? Sometimes Bard couldn’t tell the difference, and was left simply to brood on what the point of anything was.

    But the fact remained that Bard was there; he belonged to the pirates who were bound stubbornly by their morals and unyielding need to right the wrongs of a King. That had to be enough, whether it mattered or not.

    The crew had hardly failed to notice the sudden change in relationship between their Captain and First Mate. Thranduil and Bard sniped and scowled at each other, bearing down with passive aggressive remarks and unkind eye-rolls. A concerned Nimrodel attempted to confront them and offer sympathy or advice, but she was shunned and ignored by them both and told that it was nothing serious.

    “I worry, you know?” Bard overheard her saying to Glorfindel one evening. “Bard is really good for the Captain, but it’s easy to put a good thing in jeopardy when you’re scared.”

    Glorfindel flapped his hand impatiently at her. “They probably just had a misunderstanding. Why do you care, anyway? It hasn’t affected the crew.”

    “Not yet,” said Nimrodel darkly. “It’s bad for morale. A Captain and his First Mate should at least be friends.”

    “God, Nim, for all we know, they’ve just been fooling around when they were bored and now the fun has run its course. This isn’t the lover’s quarrel you think it is, and even if it was, it’s none of your business,” Glorfindel resolved.

    Nimrodel gave a ‘hmph’ of disapproval, and Bard turned his attention away from them, his stomach squirming unpleasantly. Maybe Glorfindel was right; maybe Bard had been kidding himself to think he was more to Thranduil than just an amusing way to pass the time. Thranduil had confessed to love Bard, true, but perhaps the nature of that love was not what Bard had hoped it to be.

    He shook his head to clear his thoughts, annoyed for dwelling too much on matters that ultimately weren’t important. He was projecting Nimrodel’s reservations onto himself and it was only doing more harm to his feelings. He and Thranduil were simply at an impasse; it would subside with time.

    Keen not to get caught in someone’s counsel, Bard took a bottle of rum and two apples up with him to the crow’s nest to take over for Meludir.

    “I thought Rúmil had the next watch?” he said, lifting his eyepatch to scratch under his eyebrow. Bard caught a glimpse of the gaping hole where his right eye used to be.

    “It’s fine. Tell him I’ll do it,” said Bard.

    Meludir flashed one of his pixie-like grins. “Excellent. He wanted to show me something tonight.”

    He flung down from the crow’s nest and out of sight. Bard settled himself down against the pillows that were there and stared out at the horizon. The sun had already set and the sky was cast in the deep, misty purple of twilight. Bard watched it turn slowly to navy blue, and then to black, with millions of stars glinting above him, guiding the ship’s course.

    He fell in and out of wakefulness, feeling groggy and sulky. He lit the lantern that hung on the mast, hoping a light in his eyes would keep him awake. But soon, it was not needed, for he heard someone climbing the mast.

    Bard glanced at the moon. It wasn’t yet midnight, so his watch wasn’t over. He lifted himself up to peer over the low railing and caught a glimpse of silver hair.

    Thranduil swung into the crow’s nest, landing on its deck with a light thud, his feet absent of his heavy boots. For a moment, he and Bard simply stared at each other, and then Thranduil dropped into a sitting position, crossing his legs. His hair tousled in the light wind, catching the light of the stars.

    “I’ve come to apologise,” he said, looking down at his lap. “I should not have forced you to take the key.”

    Bard’s hand moved up to the key around his neck. The cord was long, so it sat warm and humming on his chest quite pleasantly. He clenched it in his fist once, and then let his hand drop again to his lap.

    “Don’t,” he murmured. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

    Thranduil grimaced. “But I am sorry nonetheless.”

    Bard couldn’t help but feel deserving of this apology, despite his initial reservation. He met Thranduil’s gaze, searching hungrily for that gentle spark he always saw when Thranduil looked at him. But it wasn’t there. Perhaps it was just because of the shadow from the incline of his head – that’s what Bard hoped for, at least.

    “What will you do, when this is over?” Thranduil asked.

    Bard didn’t want to discuss this, so he shrugged noncommittally.

    Thranduil rubbed his arm awkwardly, sighing. “The Queen can offer you a good position in her own Navy, if you wish it, or - or on the Council, or in the Guard. You could do anything you like.”

    “I would like to keep sailing,” Bard said, deciding to humour Thranduil, however bitter it made him feel.

    Thranduil seized on this reply at once. “You could be a Lieutenant, or even Captain if you’re old enough when our journey is over.”

    “Why are you saying these things?” Bard demanded.

    “I just want you to consider a future without me. I ask the same of all my crew.”

    “Have you ever considered a future without me?” Bard said, his temper flaring. “Or does it not bother you if you are the one who is left behind, and not the other way around?”

    Thranduil looked taken aback by this, and Bard was viciously pleased to see him rendered speechless.

    “I suppose it doesn’t matter when you’re the Queen’s son,” Bard grumbled. “You have every opportunity available to you.”

    Thranduil closed his eyes. “Bard, I have asked these men and women to risk their lives for the sake of my family. Yes, they claim that it is for their country, and in many ways it is, but it is also for my family, and for my family’s sake. I do not consider my own future because I would rather give my life than see anyone else’s cast aside for my own endeavour. It comes down to the simple fact that I alone must be the one who sacrifices everything for this quest.”

    “And what about me? How much would you ask me to sacrifice?” Bard said. “I know I may seem naïve and foolish to you, but a future without you isn’t one I can see myself living. How could I possibly go on if you’re not there to lead me?”

    “When have I ever led you, Bard? When have you ever felt dictated by anyone’s actions but your own?” Thranduil said. The corners of his mouth were upturned in a half smile that Bard did not appreciate. “You must think beyond the two of us. Our wants and our needs mean little if there is no victory.”

    “I understand that. But it doesn’t make the thought of your death any easier to bear,” Bard explained. “You will at least _try_ to survive, won’t you?”

    Thranduil’s smile bloomed fully at this. “People may call this a suicide mission, but I do intend to live if at all possible.”

    “Good,” said Bard stonily.

    “Whatever happens, know that I have no regrets. And I hope you don’t either,” Thranduil declared softly.

    Bard shook his head. “I could never regret this… regret you.”

    Thranduil uncrossed his legs and crawled closer to Bard, his smile now stretching into a mischievous grin. Before Bard could protest (because he was still very upset), Thranduil was upon him and bruising kisses down his neck and collarbones. Bard huffed and tried to push Thranduil off, but he succumbed too easily to the eager brushes of Thranduil’s hands under his shirt and of the warmth of their bodies pressed together in the cool evening; something he had been two weeks starved of.

    “You know, you can’t simper at me and expect my resentment to go away,” he admonished as Thranduil’s hands found their way into his trousers.

    “Of course not,” Thranduil said. His touch was warm and it made Bard’s stomach flutter. “But, as I said, I came to apologise.”

    Bard could feel Thranduil’s grin against his neck. A part of him didn’t want to give Thranduil the satisfaction of being so quickly forgiven, but Bard knew there was a conviction in how he handled his apologies, and admired him for it.

    “I’m still going to be upset, you know,” Bard murmured.

    Thranduil hummed a throaty laugh. “I’m glad to hear it.”

 

    Bard couldn’t recall when he had fallen asleep, but when he woke it was to a immense sunrise; pink and yellow hues cast out against the soft grey of the sea. Thranduil lay next to him, curled beneath the blanket they shared with his hand still clutched around the empty bottle of rum. Bard sat upright and stretched, staring blearily across the endless water.

    He saw a ship, gliding in from the west.

    Brow furrowed and eyes still unfocused from sleep, Bard rubbed them vigorously and then stared again at the open water. The ship did not go away, as he had half expected it to. He nudged Thranduil awake and heard the clink of the bottle as it hit the deck.

    “A ship,” he said.

    “What?” Thranduil rolled over, pulling the blanket over his head.

    “A ship, Thranduil. I think it might be the Navy.”

    Thranduil scrambled to his feet at once, the blanket falling from his shoulders. He snatched up a telescope from the floor and held it to his eye. The ship was far on the edge of the horizon, barely visible in the mist that settled on the water around them.

    “Those are Greenwood’s colours,” Thranduil confirmed, still peering through the spyglass. “But it’s no warship. They must be delivering cargo…”

    He lowered the telescope, chewing his lip pensively.

    “What is it?” said Bard.

    Thranduil shook his head. “Nothing. Strike the colours for me, and raise the other flag. Wake the others.”

    Squashing the concern quelling in his stomach, Bard did as he was asked. He put on his coat and boots and climbed down from the crow’s nest to take down Thranduil’s flag. As he yanked on the pulley, it occurred to Bard that he had never asked about Thranduil’s choice in flag; it was intimidating and fearsome, to be sure, but he had never known a pirate to have an animal as their identifier. True, Dís had her red dragon, which jumped feebly in the light morning breeze some yards ahead, but Bard was quite certain she had chosen it out of pure irony.

    Once Thranduil’s flag had crumpled to the deck and was replaced by the green and white of Greenwood, Bard went to the hold to wake up the rest of the crew. Grumbling, cursing, and yawning they shuffled about their bunks, pulling on coats and boots and buckling swords.

    “Whassamatter?” Nimrodel yawned as she attempted to heave a still sleeping Mithrellas out of the hammock they shared.

    “Why would something be the matter?” said Bard evasively.

    “You’re not a very good liar, Bard,” she said.

    Mithrellas hit the deck with a blanket and a thud. Bard quickly looked away from her when he realised she wasn’t wearing a shirt. She picked up the blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, blushing and grinning furiously.

    “I’m not lying about anything!” Bard protested skittishly.

    Nimrodel yawned again, smoothing back her curly hair. “I know, but I can tell on your face when something is wrong. You have one of those faces. Don’t you think, Mitty? He’s got a face.”

    Mithrellas nodded and the two of them laughed, still slightly delusional from being woken so suddenly.

    Bard rolled his eyes. “We’ve seen a ship on the horizon, heading east from Greenwood.”

    Silence fell as this reached the ears of the other pirates still in the hold. They all stared at Bard, mouths half open in astonishment.

    “Is it – is it –?” said Feren.

    “What?” Bard demanded.

    “It can’t be,” Nimrodel cut in at once. “Oropher doesn’t trade with anyone in the east.”

    “Not that we know of,” Elrond added.

    “What did Thranduil say?” said Tauriel from the floor, where she was stuffing her feet into her boots.

    “Nothing,” said Bard, feeling distinctly nettled at their prying. But he understood their concern and murmuring. He swallowed uneasily, and then said, “You think it’s carrying slaves?”

    Nimrodel shot him a severe look. “We can’t rule out the possibility that Oropher has extended his trade.”

    “I suppose we’ll find out, won’t we?” said Haldir.

    Bard nodded. “He wants everyone ready to board.”

    He went back up to the deck, feeling queasy. He was not keen on the idea of slaves aboard that ship. But it was very small; perhaps it was only normal cargo.

    Thranduil was on the quarterdeck, talking rapidly to Glorfindel at the helm. He looked worried and pale, but no less determined than always. Bard hurried up to join them, glancing over the water once again. Some yards ahead, Dís’ men on the _Durin’s Bane_ were striking the sails and dropping the anchor.

    “– to our usual technique. I don’t want this getting bloody unless absolutely necessary,” Thranduil said to Glorfindel.

    “But if there are slaves –” Glorfindel interjected.

    Thranduil cut him off with a swift wave of his hand. “I’m not assuming anything of that ship right now. As far as I’m concerned, the King was never going to trade east, so it could be destined anywhere, with anything, and all we are to them is pirates looking for goods to steal.”

    “Yes, Captain.”

    The rest of the crew were on the deck now, staring anxiously across the water at the distant ship. The mist had not yet cleared, but they could see that it was drawing closer now while The _Eryn Lasgalen_ sidled up to the _Durin’s Bane_. When they were level, Orophin dropped the anchor and Thranduil conferred quickly with Dís over the railing.

    “What if there _are_ slaves on that ship?” Bard asked Glorfindel. “Will they come with us?”

    Glorfindel shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. We don’t have time to sail back around to Imladris, but neither do we have the supplies to feed and bed more people. It will be up to Thranduil to decide what to do.”

    While Dís and her crew were preparing their ship to sail again, Thranduil returned to the quarterdeck to address his crew.

    “I know you probably think that’s a slaver’s ship, but I’m not prepared to accept that just yet. You are to conduct yourself as you would boarding an ordinary cargo vessel unless we find something incriminating. If anyone sheds a drop of sailor blood before I give the word, I’ll have them flogged.”

    “What if they put up a fight, Captain?” Lethuin piped up from a barrel where he was securing Rúmil’s most recent prosthesis creation to his leg.

    “With any luck, they’ll surrender, but keep your weapons at the ready. Await my signal.”

    Thranduil lifted his head to face the open water, the spyglass still clutched in his hand. All around him, the pirates prepared themselves to board, but Bard stayed by his side, the surging feeling of anxiety still swirling inside him. He couldn’t comprehend Thranduil’s composure at boarding another ship; surely it wasn’t something a man became accustomed to.

    “What signal are you going to give?” he asked.

    “The real trick to boarding a ship is raising the black at the exact moment that will make them surrender,” Thranduil explained, lifting the telescope to his eye to watch the other vessel. “Raise it too soon, and they make a run for it… raise it too late, and they panic and put up a fight.”

    “That sounds like a difficult choice to make,” Bard mused.

    “It took me years to get it right,” said Thranduil, lowering the spyglass. “It still makes me nervous.”

    “I’m nervous too,” Bard confessed quietly.

    Thranduil glanced at him, his gaze softening for the first time that morning. “You’re welcome to stay on board, if you like.”

    But Bard shook his head at once. “It’s not that. I’m not _afraid_.”

    Thranduil smiled gently. “I understand. Boarding a ship and leaving so many men to the fate of the sea… sometimes I cannot quite justify it.”

    “If you did not suspect slaves to be aboard, would you let them go?” Bard said.

    Thranduil thought about this for a moment. “No. I am a pirate, and I must keep to the code I have applied to myself and my crew. That ship is from Greenwood, and so I am obligated to board it.”

    “But you take no pleasure in it,” Bard stated.

    Thranduil smirked and turned to face Bard properly. “I said I cannot justify it, not that I take no pleasure in it. After all, it is deeply satisfying to disrupt my father’s shipments.”

    Bard’s heart seized painfully at the spark of malice he caught in Thranduil’s eyes. It was unsettling, he thought, to know how much Thranduil hated his own father. But Bard could not say he blamed him, nor would he seek to take that hatred away, as it was rightfully placed.

    It was a tense couple of hours for the pirates as they slowly drew nearer to the Greenwood ship, which was tiny in comparison to the _Eryn Lasgalen_. Dís and her crew fell behind, tailing Thranduil several hundred yards at their rudder so as not to fall in any danger, should it come to a fight. Thranduil did not move from his position on the quarterdeck, except to lift the telescope periodically to his eye. Bard offered him food and drink, but Thranduil refused it all, devoting his concentration to estimating when to raise his flag.

    The Greenwood ship was well within their sights when he finally gave the signal. Bard could see the sailors now, scurrying about the deck. He noticed that they did not wear the Navy uniform he once had, and he saw no sign of weapons or cannons.

    Thranduil lowered his telescope for the last time and nodded to Lethuin, who had been waiting patiently by the mast that bore the flag. He scrambled to his feet and yanked on the pulley. The Greenwood colours fell, and the black and white animal skull snagged in the wind seconds later.

    Bard tied back his hair as he watched the other vessel, awaiting the reaction the black flag would receive. After a few minutes of bated breath, the colours were struck and they surrendered.

    It was suddenly strange to see Thranduil move. As soon as he saw the Greenwood colours drop, he hastened from the quarterdeck and disappeared into his cabin. He emerged some time later with his shoes and hat on, buckling his sword with his pistols. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ swept over to the Greenwood ship, casting a dark and looming shadow over the sailors as they dropped their anchor, their eyes glazed over with fear. Bard wondered if that was how he and his fellow sailors had looked the day Thranduil had boarded the _Thrush._

    It was a wordless routine. All the pirates knew their positions, and the sailors knew theirs. They stood on the main deck of the small vessel while Thranduil pointed to various members of his crew to join him on the ship. They were there to investigate and steal, not intimidate, and so half the crew remained on board. Feren and Meludir slid a plank between the two vessels and Thranduil was the first to cross, followed by Bard, and then everyone else.

    The Captain of the Greenwood vessel was a weedy, pock-marked young man who eyed Thranduil with disgust, as though he were an unwanted rat aboard his ship. Well, it was more of a boat, Bard thought, and it was nastily claustrophobic as there were too many sailors aboard. They stood in a huddle by the forecastle, glaring at the pirates as they walked over the plank and invaded their territory.

    The Captain stepped forward at once, but not so close as to actually touch Thranduil if he stretched out his arm. He handed over a book, and a small ring of keys.

    “Captains Log,” he said, taking a deep breath, “and the keys to any locked doors.”

    Thranduil snatched them from him and gave the book to Glorfindel without a word, who immediately began to riffle through the pages, enquiring about the ship’s cargo while Thranduil observed quietly. Bard hovered beside him, his heart hammering anxiously. He didn’t like the way the sailors were watching them. They weren’t Navy men, and so they looked prone to lashing out despite their orders. They reminded Bard forcefully of Thranduil's crew when they had surrendered to gain an advantage. The sailors had the same look in their eyes; predatory and resolute.

    “We’re delivering flour, wine, and some livestock,” the Captain said robotically to Glorfindel.

    “A bit small for a cargo ship, aren’t you?” Glorfindel said, almost without a care, turning another page in the log book with his prosthetic hand, which seemed to make the Captain uneasy.

    Bard caught the bead of sweat that trickled down the Captain’s temple. Evidently Thranduil had seen it as well. He clicked his fingers to the crew who had boarded and pointed towards the hold. As one, the pirates moved about the ship in search of the cargo. Bard stayed behind.

    “Destination?” said Glorfindel.

    “It’s all written there,” said the Captain impatiently, his voice squeaking briefly.

    Glorfindel looked up from the log book and smiled serenely. “I wish to hear it from you.”

    “Rhûn,” the Captain said, and Bard believed it.

    “Rhûn is a big country to sail to,” said Thranduil, speaking for the first time, “for such a small cargo ship.”

    The Captain’s worried brow smoothed into a scowl. “I know you, Prince of Greenwood. You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”

    Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you think I’m looking for?” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

    The Captain did not reply, but crossed his arms firmly and faced Glorfindel instead, who was still immersed in the log book as though it was a marvel of fiction.

    Thranduil turned to Bard and handed him the ring of keys discreetly. “Search for any locked doors.”

    Bard nodded once. He pocketed the keys, and went down to the hold, where other members of the crew were pilfering anything they could find. Nimrodel was already carrying a crate of bread up the stairs, and Feren and Galion were lifting a barrel of wine. Tauriel skirted passed Bard to grab a basket of oranges. She tossed one to him, grinning hugely. They had nearly run out of fruit and vegetables (and onions didn’t count).

    Bard set the orange down on a barrel and scanned the hold for a door, but there was only the galley, which had already be ransacked of spices and utensils by Amroth and Galdor. Bard moved on, going down the next flight of stairs, where he splashed into the main hold. It was awash to his ankles with cold seawater and he privately grieved for his new boots, which were soaked through in an instant.

    But there was no door in the main hold; there wasn’t anything there at all, in fact, except dirty, ill-kept barrels, which Bard thought was suspicious, but not unreasonable given the state of the leaks. He couldn't imagine anything else being kept down here.

    He sloshed through the water, searching for… something. He wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to be finding.

    The ship gave a sudden lurch and Bard grabbed hold of a post to steady himself. The same couldn’t be said for the barrels, however. They toppled over and rolled around on the deck. The lid of one fell open, and Bard was shocked to see that it wasn’t empty.

    A boy, of maybe ten or eleven, tumbled out of the barrel and into the water, dressed in dirty rags and shivering. He gasped when he saw Bard, and attempted to hide himself in the barrel again, scrabbling at the lid. Bard hurried over to nearest barrel and wrenched off its lid. A girl was inside, staring up at him in fright. He discovered the same of the barrel next to hers, and the one next to that. They were all filled with children.

    Numb with shock and breathing very hard, Bard burst out from the hold and up the stairs. He didn’t speak when he approached Thranduil – he couldn’t. He simply pointed with his thumb, and nodded his head. Thranduil didn’t hesitate for a second. The look in his eyes was scorching. He drew his pistol and shot the Greenwood Captain in the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I always leave the chapters with weird, cliff-hangery endings, but I see it as kind of a tv episode ending, where you know what's gonna happen, but you're forced to wait and find out anyway. It's starting to feel like these guys will never get to Erebor. I feel bad for them and myself.  
> Thank you so much for reading! I'm looking forward to introducing another new crew member in the next chapter :)


	18. Legolas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fair warning, this chapter is kind of boring? but i had fun writing it all the same and i hope it's as enjoyable as the others. i'm very happy to announce the newest member to the crew (and the lucky last because there is honestly too many of them and i keep losing my list of names). thank you for reading! everyone who takes the time to read and comment and give kudos means the world to me because i really enjoy writing this story a lot and i hope you all enjoy reading it.

The bodies of the dead sailors were heaved overboard before the children were permitted to leave the hold. They hit the water with gruesome splashes and oozed blood around the ship’s hull. Bard wiped his forehead of sweat as he helped push the last sailor over the railing with Lethuin. They shared a grim expression. The fight had been quickly won, as the pirates had outnumbered the sailors two-to-one. While some of them sported injuries, it was nothing they couldn’t walk off. Even Mithrellas had hardened to the battlefield; she was nursing a bloody hand, which appeared to have its last two fingers missing. Bard grimaced as he watched Nimrodel rush to her aid and help her across the plank to see to the wound. Hers was the worst injury, he was relieved to see, but it made him wonder just how much the crew would lose of themselves before the journey was over.

    As the rest of the Greenwood cargo was moved to the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , Thranduil, Feren and Glorfindel emerged from the main hold, followed closely by a huddle of frightened children, who squinted and shielded their eyes from the sun. Some of them were in chains, while others only trembled with fear. Bard knew they didn't trusted the pirates (how could pirates possibly be better than smugglers?), but he hoped their misgivings would not hold out for long.

    They trooped across the plank, heads bowed low. There were about twenty of them; all thin, young, and small, dressed in rags with no shoes. Bard spotted Lindir on the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , looking unusually pale and ushering the children into the forecastle, which was larger than the Captain’s cabin and therefore better to house them.

    The last to leave the enemy ship, Bard pulled the plank aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_ , feeling unnerved. He did not regret the deaths of those sailors, and that troubled him. He had always been hesitant to kill, even if it was necessary, even if it was an order, but knowing those sailors – those smugglers – were at the bottom of the sea made his heart surge with a guilty pleasure. For the first time ever in his life, he felt they deserved it. Perhaps finding children in barrels could do that to a person.

    Rubbing the goosebumps from his arms, Bard went after Thranduil, who was walking into the forecastle with Elrond and Lindir.

    Inside, the children were sitting on the deck by crates and bedrolls, flinching apprehensively whenever someone got too close to them. Rúmil was already moving about the room, unlocking their shackles with a key that had been found on the Greenwood Captain. The chains were tossed unceremoniously into a corner while Lindir and Elrond tended to any hurts or bruises. They examined each child meticulously, making sure they weren’t carrying any diseases or subject to poison. Lindir was muttering oaths under his breath as he found lice and fevers and the flu.

    Thranduil was standing by the door, looking on with a set jaw and his arms folded. There was a fresh cut above his eyebrow, but he seemed not to notice it. Bard walked over to him.

    “What’s going to happen to them?”

    Thranduil glanced at him. “I don’t know. I don’t know where to take them.”

    “Can’t they come with us?” Bard suggested. He knew Thranduil would disregard this, but he was providing thinking material, because it helped.

    “We don’t have the space to keep them, or the food to feed them. They must be taken somewhere safe.”

    “Why not Erebor? I’m sure Dís can see to it that they are looked after,” Bard said.

    But Thranduil shook his head. “If things don’t go the way we want in Erebor, we may have to take them to Imladris, but we can't make such a journey without fresh supplies.”

    Bard sighed and watched the children for a little while. They looked sad and pitiful; beaten and discouraged like no child should be. Even from within the forecastle, Bard could sense the tension that had quelled the rest of the crew. All of them had been given another reminder as to why they were on this Godforsaken mission. And for Bard it was the first time; he was seeing the reason for the first time, and it hurt more than he cared to feel.

    He looked back at Thranduil and caught his eye at last. He was solemn, as if attending a funeral. But Bard could see he was thinking, as the crease between his eyebrows was forming deeper.

    “You have an idea,” Bard prompted.

    “Not a good one,” Thranduil answered.

    He rubbed his jaw, smudging some blood there from his hands as he pondered to himself. When he did not speak for several minutes, Bard nudged him.

    “Home. We will have to take them home.”

    Bard couldn't hide his astonishment. “You don’t mean back to Greenwood? That’s suicide!”

    “It’s the only way,” Thranduil cut in. “The Queen will take care of them and see they have safe passage to Imladris.”

    “But to smuggle twenty children _back_ into the kingdom… you’re asking for a miracle, Thranduil,” Bard protested.

    Thranduil shrugged half-heartedly. “You cannot ask for miracles. There is no such thing.”

    He cast the children a final, fleeting look before exiting the cabin. His hand brushed Bard’s arm briefly, but then the door opened and closed and Thranduil disappeared. Feeling perturbed, Bard approached Lindir to see if there was anything he could do. They had to ensure the children’s safety before setting sail. It would not do to sacrifice the voyage to Erebor if they did not outlive their injuries and hunger.

    Bard assisted with cleaning wounds and binding fractured bones while Lindir and Elrond continued to assess symptoms. The children were timid, but bravely answered questions and asked some of their own. Bard kept one boy talking while he cleaned a deep gash on his ankle.

    “What’s your name?” he inquired, unrolling a bandage.

    The boy couldn’t have been older than twelve. He was sombre-eyed, light-skinned and, beneath the dirt and grime, his hair was as bright as starlight.

    “Legolas,” he whispered, wincing as Bard started to wrap his ankle.

    “I’m Bard. How old are you, Legolas?”

    “I’m ten.”

    “Are you feeling okay?”

    Legolas nodded, but he paused and added, “My foot hurts.”

    Bard smirked. “It’s not infected. You are very lucky.”

    “Will we have to steer the ship?” Legolas asked.

    Bard’s breath hitched in surprised, but he collected his bearings at once. “Certainly not. That’s what we’re here for.”

    “But you’re pirates.”

    “We’re not bad,” Bard explained gently, tying the bandage neatly. “We’re going to take you somewhere safe.”

    “I’ve always wanted to meet a pirate,” Legolas said, his tone a little bolder now. He took a deep breath, gathering his courage spectacularly. “I heard – I heard that Captain Thranduil is the most fearsome pirate in Middle Earth! I heard he’s sunk a thousand ships!”

    He lurched forward, as if brandishing an invisible sword. Bard stopped him from toppling over, laughing.

    “Where did you hear that?” he said, grinning.

    “Everyone in Greenwood tells it like that. He’s really famous. I’ve seen his wanted posters, too, and I’ve been trying to grow out my hair like his!” Legolas threw back his hair, which was filthy and clumped with dirt and knots, but an unmistakable equal to Thranduil’s.

    Bard laughed again. He ruffled Legolas’ hair, asked him if he needed anything else, and then moved onto the next child, who was being fussed over by Lindir because she had conjunctivitis.  

    It was a long, tiring afternoon. The children had their wounds cleaned and dressed before given food and hot water. Tauriel arrived and passed around cleaned clothes. Though they served better than the rags (which were promptly thrown overboard) the long shirts swayed around the children’s knees like nightclothes.

    Most importantly, all hair had to be shaved for the sake of preventing the lice from spreading. While most looked horror-struck by this, the children lined up dutifully in front of Lindir, Amroth and Nimrodel to have their hair shaved away with razors. It was a short-lived grievance, however, as they were soon relishing their lice-free heads and roaming about the ship at their leisure.

    Legolas made quick work of capturing Thranduil’s attention. Around dinner time, Bard spotted them sitting together on the steps to the quarterdeck, talking animatedly. Thranduil was smiling and pulling forward his long hair to drape over Legolas’ head.

    “I remember when that was me,” Tauriel said next to Bard, a fond look in her eyes as she wiped her hands on a dirty rag. “Oh, how I idolised him. I still do. You can’t not adore a person who saves your life the way Thranduil does.”

    “I never truly realised how important this was,” Bard said quietly. “It feels so different when you finally witness how much it means for a child to be free.”

    “There are still countless children enslaved out there.” Tauriel clenched her fists against the railing. “One day, I’m going to save them all.”

    “You never speak of your time as a slave.”

    Tauriel’s eyes flashed. “I don’t like to remember it.”

    “I’m sorry,” Bard said quickly.

    “It isn’t a part of my life anymore. I am the person I am today because someone chose to save me, not because of what I suffered at the hands of slavers. I’m not so proud as to claim that it was my choices and my disposition alone that got me here. Sometimes you need someone to save you, and there’s no shame in that.”

    Bard looked back at Thranduil and Legolas. They were uncannily alike in appearance; their noses were the same, and they shared the same sharp jaw and wide, uncharacteristic smile. They could have been mistake for brothers, or even father and son.

 

    The pirates set sail in the late afternoon. The Greenwood ship was set ablaze just as the other one had been and Dís and her crew continued the journey to Erebor alone, already miles ahead of the _Eryn Lasgalen_. Thranduil agreed to meet her there in the coming months, promising to be on time for the Council decision. He sent some of his crew with her – Elros, Erestor and Haldir volunteered to go as a precaution, and Bilbo went with them, crossing over to the _Durin’s Bain_ with no small amount of relief.

    The children were provided the forecastle to sleep in, with bedrolls on the floor and plenty of blankets. Those who had been sleeping there previously made room for themselves below deck, squabbling over the few spare hammocks and shifting sacks of flower or rice. Once night settled and Meludir climbed the crow’s nest to take the first watch (followed half an hour later by Rúmil, which escaped no one’s notice) a fire was lit and those who were up to it shared light conversation before bed. The hardship of the day weighed heavy on everyone’s shoulders. Bard witnessed now the original state of the pirates; worn and tired like shell-shocked soldiers who had seen too many battles. They spoke of old homes and families and friends – all that had been left behind for the sake of a kingdom and a purpose.

    “Didn’t you leave a girl behind, Amroth?” Orophin said.

    “No,” said Amroth, his brow furrowed with confusion. “Where did you hear that?”

    “Haldir said you were going to marry someone.”

    Bard’s eyes flickered to Nimrodel, who had surreptitiously released Mithrellas’ hand at these words, staring fixedly at the bottle of rum in her hands.

    “Oh,” Amroth said, catching on with a flush of embarrassment. “It… it was just a thought. I don’t think it would have worked out. We weren’t promised or anything.”

    “I think it would be nice to meet a girl,” said Orophin with a misty look in his eyes. “I wonder what they’re like in Erebor.”

    “Hairy,” hiccupped Galion.

    “Hey! It’s not up to you to be critical of a woman’s body!” Nimrodel piped up, finding her flare again.

    “Ah, geez…”

    They fell into an argument, Mithrellas and Tauriel both siding with Nimrodel to gang up on Galion. Beside him, Thranduil exhaled pointedly and stood up to retire. Bard gave himself a moment’s pause before deciding he was also tired and he followed Thranduil to the cabin.

    He was already undressing when Bard entered, but his movements were slow and without consideration. He fiddled with a button on his shirt for ages until Bard took pity on him and went to help. Thranduil’s unfocused gaze shifted onto Bard. He’d drunk too much that night, but Bard made no comment on it. He tugged the shirt off, jostling the necklace around Thranduil’s neck. There was only one now that Bard had the key. The white jewel glistened against Thranduil’s chest, though no light was cast on it to reflect. When Bard reached up to it, he felt that it was cold.

    “I don’t want to go back,” Thranduil whispered, staring down at the jewel.

    Bard dropped his hand and looked at Thranduil. “You said it was the only way.”

    Thranduil shook his head drunkenly. “It isn’t that. I don’t want to ever go back.”

    He swayed on the spot and then shuffled over to the bed, falling face-first onto the mattress. Bard left him there for a moment, taking his time unbuckling his weapons and removing his tunic, shirt and boots. Then, he sat beside Thranduil and patted him solicitously on the head.

    Thranduil rolled onto his back, staring up at Bard with bright eyes, his hair spilling out like a river on the sheets in the way that it always did. Bard wondered at Thranduil; so unfit to be a pirate, and yet he took it in his stride so well. He bore his scars and dirty clothes and sun-kissed face with striking beauty. Bard knew it was his princely upbringing that had such an effect; it was something that would never leave him, no matter how hard he tried to let it go.

    “Let’s sail the seas forever,” he whispered.

    Bard smiled. “Wouldn’t you get tired of all that water? I think even I would long to make port if we never stopped sailing.”

    Thranduil raised a finger to Bard’s lips in admonishment. “No, Bard, listen to me. You and I are fishes; we _belong_ to the sea.”

    Thranduil’s hand opened and it cupped Bard’s face gently. These hands, Bard thought, were like his hands. They gave strict orders and dealt deadly blows – they were killers, Thranduil’s hands. But they were also liberators of slaves, and guiders of the ship, and as gentle as the sunrise. Bard brought his lips to Thranduil’s palm, closing his eyes against its softness.

    “We belong to each other,” he said.

    Thranduil smiled so that it was an entirety. “We have done a kind thing today.”

    “I wonder if it is enough,” Bard said.

    “Enough for what?” Thranduil sat up, turning around to face Bard.

    “Enough to be forgiven for all our unkindnesses.”

    Thranduil gave in involuntary hiss. “It is not a sin to do what is right.”

    “But what we’re doing – piracy, murder, theft – it’s a mark on us as individuals. We keep it with us forever,” Bard explained carefully.

    Thranduil smiled again at this, but it was mocking and ill-tempered. “That’s the whole point, Bard. We do it so no one else has to. Or, rather, because no one else _wants_ to.”

    “What does that make us, then? Are we good people, or bad people?”

    Thranduil hesitated, and then said, “We are what we make of each other. Whether we are good or bad is not for us to decide.”

    “And you’re okay with that?” said Bard.

    Thranduil threw himself back onto the bed, his head on the pillow now. “Yes,” he said very resolutely.

    Bard sighed, but crawled under the blankets with Thranduil, their feet touching at the end of the bed.

    “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re a good person,” Bard affirmed.

    “Doesn’t that make you a good person too?” Thranduil teased.

    “I suppose it does. But I feel like a bad one.”

    “Me too.”

    Feeling strangely comforted by this, Bard kissed Thranduil’s hand. Perhaps it did not matter if he was a good person or a bad person. What mattered was that, for the first time ever, Bard had made someone’s life better because of his own choices. There were twenty-odd children sleeping soundly aboard Thranduil’s ship that night, and Bard had something to do with that.

 

    The prospect of returning to Greenwood (the lack of gems notwithstanding) was not met with enthusiasm. The pirates couldn’t help but peer anxiously towards the horizon, where the country was skirting the water, looming ever closer.

    The children provided a much needed distraction, however. They ran around on the deck, darting here and there and playing games, already looking healthier and better nourished after just a few days. Some of them watched the crew perform duties, learning and helping, while others lounged on crates, recovering from illnesses or broken bones and talking amongst themselves. Nimrodel clucked at them like a mother hen, Galdor slaved away in the galley, baking extra loaves of bread and onion soup, and Glorfindel thrilled them with stories of the crew’s adventures, making everything sound much more impressive than it had been.

    Legolas devoted his attention to Thranduil, and Thranduil to him. They talked for hours, playing games, and even sparring. And if Thranduil was busy, Legolas would find Bard, or Tauriel, or Glorfindel. There was always someone for him to talk to. He was a bright, sympathetic boy who showed no signs of being treated poorly as a slave. It was clear that he had been, but he accepted whatever fate with courage and a steadfast heart. He was not as easily broken as the other children, who were sullen and did not speak up. They seemed to admire him for it; he was their beacon.

    “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Tauriel asked him one day while she and Bard were doing an inventory of their artillery.

    “I want to be a pirate,” Legolas said at once, grabbing a cannonball and rolling it between his hands on the deck. “I’m going to stay and be a part of the crew.”

    Tauriel and Bard laughed at this at first, but when they saw Legolas’ serious expression, they exchanged doubtful looks.

    “You’re too young to be a pirate, Leggy,” Tauriel said, scratching a number in the book on her knee with a quill. “When you go to Imladris, you can be all sorts of better things.”

    “What’s better than being a pirate?” Legolas demanded. Unconsciously, he lifted a hand to his head, frowning at the shaved bristles that had been left there. 

    “Many things are better than piracy,” said Bard sagely. “Other jobs have dental.”

    “Dental?"

    "Teeth care."

    "I don’t even have all my teeth,” Legolas said, baring them. He had three missing.

    “You’ll grown them back,” Bard told him.

    “Really?”

    “But only once,” Tauriel added. She pulled back her bottom lip to show where she was missing a tooth of her own.

    Legolas stared at the hole in amazement. But, undeterred, he turned back to Bard. “I heard from Glorfindel that you weren’t always a pirate.”

    “Glorfindel is full of stories, isn’t he?” Bard said, counting the bullets in his hand.

    “He said you were sailor in the Navy. How come you’re a pirate now?”

    “Piracy is only better than being a sailor,” Bard said evasively. “Everything else is better than piracy.”

    “Even slavery?”

    Bard’s heart seized at this, and Tauriel faltered over the book with her quill.

    “Okay, maybe not everything. But you should still reconsider being a pirate.”

    Legolas shook his head resolutely. Bard shrugged, and started putting the bullets into a sack.

 

    The nearer they sailed to Greenwood, the tenser the pirates became. Even Bard, who had no bounty on his head (as far as he was concerned), was worried about what might happen when they arrived. There was a great deal of planning to oversee – the position of the ship, how many people would go ashore, what was to happen if they got caught, what time they would send word ahead to the Queen – it was endless, and Bard was in charge of nearly all of it, as Thranduil spent most of his time with Legolas.

    Bard learned the hard way how stressful it was to plan a course of action. The lives of these men and women (and children) were depending on him; if he overlooked even the smallest detail, they could all be put in danger, and it would be on his conscience. He understood now the full weight of Thranduil’s responsibility to his crew, and to the lives of those he cared about.

    With only a two months left to get to Erebor before Thorin yielded to a vote, getting the children to safety had to be done swiftly. They couldn’t afford to waste time, especially considering how much could go wrong. As far as Bard was concerned, it would be a true, real miracle if they didn’t get caught.

    “It’s important the ship is kept out of sight of Greenwood,” Amroth reminded him unnecessarily. “Even with the colours struck, the King knows the _Eryn Lasgalen_ by the breadth of its bow.”

    “I know,” Bard snapped, staring down at a map of the country. “But if we anchor so far as to be out of sight, we won’t be able to take the longboats to shore.”

    His fingers ran over the map, trying to see passed the simple shapes and lines and into the very structure of the world itself. The more he stared, the more he couldn’t make sense of it, yet the answer seemed to be staring right at him. Hopelessly, he looked up, shielding his eyes against the sun to see Thranduil down on the deck, sparring with Legolas, who had already grown much confidence after a week of training.

    Abandoning the plight for the afternoon, Bard went to get himself some food. He felt feverish and tired from thinking in the sun all day. He would have to ask Thranduil for help; he couldn’t leave this up to Bard alone.

    “I need your help,” he said straightforwardly that night in the cabin, laying the map between them on the table.

    Thranduil looked up from his book perplexedly. “With what?”

    Bard glared at him in exasperation. “With – with getting the children to the Queen! Surely you have considered it some more. I have been planning all week, but nothing has come together.”

    “Is that what you’ve been doing?” Thranduil said, putting his book down with an air of surprise. “I – I haven’t noticed. I haven’t even thought…”

    He trailed off, appearing to be quite taken aback with himself. Bard cocked his head to the side, trying to work out what Thranduil was thinking.

    “You have been acting odd,” he stated plainly.

    “I just – I have never met a child like Legolas,” Thranduil said. “It was as if he were my son, Bard. I could be fooled into thinking he was my own flesh and blood.”

    Bard frowned pensively at this. “Could he be? I mean, he isn’t too old…”

    “It’s impossible. I have never –” Thranduil broke off, clearing his throat awkwardly. “It is a strange connection, but I cannot deny it. I have never loved anyone so much.”

    Bard did not try to contest this by teasing. He saw the look on Thranduil’s face and knew he was only telling the truth of his feelings. It was a peculiar phenomenon, but it made Thranduil happy, which was something beyond even what Bard could do.

    “Well, your babysitting days are over, Captain,” Bard said, flashing a grin. “I need your advice on where we ought to position the ship. We need to be concealed, but close enough so that the longboats can reach Laketown. That is our first priority, and then we can organise what to do once the children are on land. I have already proposed we smuggle them in at night –”

    “Here,” Thranduil interrupted. He was pointing to a river that passed through the forest beside the Greenwood Mountains. It flowed into the country from the sea, all the way to Laketown. “The Celduin is flanked on both sides by trees and mountains. If we anchor the ship at its mouth, it will be well hidden, and we can safely ferry the longboats all the way to Laketown.”

    “But I heard the Celduin is a very dangerous river to travel by,” said Bard.

    Thranduil made a ‘so-so’ gesture with his hand over the map. “The danger is here, where the river forks off into the city. There is a waterfall there and it’s… difficult to avoid, but not impossible.”

    Bard paled. “So we’ll be hidden at the risk of plummeting to a waterfall?”

    “It isn’t very far to fall if we do. But, like I said, it’s difficult, not impossible. I have navigated this river before,” Thranduil clarified.

    Bard sighed. “I suppose this is our only option.”

    Thranduil nodded. “This was never going to be easy, but I’m confident in my men. And I’m confident in you, Bard.”

    “Me?”

    “You sound as if you already have a plan to get them into the palace,” Thranduil said knowingly, smirking.

    “A vague one,” Bard dismissed. “We can go over it tomorrow. I’m exhausted.”

    “Me too,” Thranduil agreed, snapping his book shut.

    Bard felt that the weight of responsibility on his shoulders had lifted ever so slightly now that Thranduil was executing his usual expertise at getting out of sticky situations. But Bard did not feel completely liberated, and he was sure the same went for the entirety of the crew. They all held accountability for the children in their care. This was their job. This was their purpose. They were all of them equally burdened and honoured by what they felt was the right thing to do.

 

    It was well past midnight when Bard awoke to gentle knocking on the cabin door. It entered the dream he was having, and it took him a moment to realise he had woken up to it. Thranduil was already climbing out of bed and hastening to the open the door.

    Moonlight shone into the cabin. Bard squinted at it to see the small figure of a child silhouetted against the light pooling onto the deck. He heard a few whispered words, and the door closed again. Another set of footsteps had joined Thranduil’s now, and there was an extra weight added to the bed after he got back in. Bard rolled over to find Legolas wriggling under the blankets beside him. He shot Thranduil a puzzled look, but Thranduil shrugged and adjusted the sheets meticulously so that everyone was warm.


	19. Greenwood Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people wanted to know if Legolas is biologically Thranduil's son, and I was tempted to make it so, but I scrapped the idea because it would have just created a wholly unnecessary subplot that I didn't feel like dealing with. Legolas already has a role in the story and I didn't want to over-complicate it, if I'm honest.
> 
> Just a heads up, this chapter is a little lengthier than the previous ones. It was going to be a lot longer, but I admitted defeat and cut it off where I did because I underestimated how much I wanted to include. I hope you enjoy it anyway! Thank you a hundred times for your comments and kudos, as always. They warm my heart to the very core, I mean it.

The following weeks passed too quickly for Bard’s liking. Despite the dwindling rations and cramped space on the ship, he enjoyed having the children on board. They brought a soothing harmony and innocence to the rest of the crew. Those who were able continued to assist in steering the ship, learning to rig sails and secure lines and man the helm, while those still unwell or wounded wandered about at their leisure, helping where they could and keeping the pirates company. It felt as though they had lifted a great sorrow from the very vessel, and it sailed smoother than ever.

    The only true downside was perhaps that all the children looked very alike and it was unfortunately easy to get them mixed up. Being all between the ages of nine and twelve, they only truly varied in the colour of their skin, and even when they could be told apart from one another, it was revealed that some of them didn’t even have names. Mithrellas spent long afternoons with them, supplying names for their suggested use, so that they might have something to call themselves. Every one of them adored her, for she was the gentlest of the crew in words and gestures. Though the children were strong and hardy, they were still fragile from the months or years they had spent in chains.

    But, whether they were named, unnamed, broken, or whole, Legolas knew them all. The smallest and the scrawniest of the lot, he had helped them through hatred and loneliness with unwavering optimism and solidarity. They teased him and made their jokes as children did, but deep down they held a great deal of respect for the little boy who had defied every rule he could, no matter the consequences.

    “I used to steal food from the kitchens where we were working,” he was telling Bard and Thranduil one day. They sat in the shade under the stairs by the cabin. Bard and Thranduil had been planning their route into Greenwood, but Legolas had come to interrupt them. He, like the other children, was not yet aware of the gravity of their situation.

    “Did that not get you into trouble?” said Thranduil. He flipped a coin lazily against his knuckles, pondering the map, but still devoting his attention to the boy.

    Legolas shrugged. “Only when I got caught. But I always stood my ground. Never let a beating get to me.”

    Bard supressed a shiver at Legolas’ tone. He had a way of exposing the slave market and industry with brutal indifference, as though his poor treatment did not affect him, and yet making it clear that, in many ways, it did.

    “How did you come to be a slave? Do you have family?” Bard inquired.

    “Nah. Not me. Some of the other kids have families, but their parents had to sell them.”

    Bard’s mouth fell open at this, but Legolas smirked unconcernedly. It unnerved Bard how alike he and Thranduil were in that respect; always smirking and knowing better than other people, acting cocky.

    “Happens all the time with poor families. If money’s tight, they sell off their kids to get the wages they earn serving nobility or cleaning chimney’s – stuff like that – but it’s just a dirty con to get cheap slaves. The families never see a silver of what they were promised.”

    “And what about you?”

    “Me? I grew up in an orphanage. But the Mistress got tired of me hanging around and causing trouble, so she passed me off to some slimeball for a couple of gold pieces. Makes me think I probably should have got myself adopted after all,” Legolas said moodily, tugging at a chip in the table they were sitting at.

    “How come you weren’t?”

    “Didn’t want to be!” he said indignantly. “I’m not letting some jumped-up pair of strangers tell me I’m their family. No way. _I_ choose who my family is.”

    Bard couldn’t help but smile at this, and Thranduil did too. Legolas was steadfast in his opinions and beliefs, sharing them almost tactlessly. Despite his young age and lack of education, he was very intelligent and picked up things with surprising ease, always ready to learn and teach others in turn.

    “You will like it in Imladris,” Thranduil told him. “Lady Celebrían will find you a nice family to take you in.”

    Legolas frowned. “But that’s no different to being juggled from owner to owner! I’m not property you can just give away!”

    “Imladris is different. There are no slaves there.”

    “That’s not the point. I don’t want someone to depend on for safety. I can take care of myself just fine. I can make my own choices!”

    Bard could see that Thranduil was attempting to collect himself, clearly surprised by Legolas’ outburst. He had stopped jostling the coin on his knuckles and was knocking it on the table instead in an agitated, thoughtful sort of way.

    “Legolas, you are still very young. It’s not a bad thing to be taken care of,” he said.

    “Well, then why can’t you take care of me?” Legolas demanded, his eyes bright with defiance.

    Thranduil faltered, blinking rapidly with shock. Under the table, Bard reached over and squeezed his hand for support.

    “A ship is no place for a child to grow up.”

    “I am grown up! I want to be a pirate like you!” Legolas cried. “You can’t send me away. Don’t be like everyone else.”

    There was a half-second where Thranduil hesitated. He was always so sure of his actions and reactions, always calculating and thinking, but Bard could tell that Legolas brought down his defences like no one else could. He moved forward at once and wrapped Legolas into his arms.

    “No, of course. Of course you can stay.”

    Bard was unsure how to feel about this. He did not like the idea of a child coming with them on such a perilous journey, but he could see that Thranduil would not deny Legolas anything. There was a bond between them that no obstacle would break. They would not be parted, whether by their own will or another’s.

   

    Though it was not spoken aloud or disclosed in any fashion, infiltrating Greenwood with a small army of children had the pirates downright scared. They had never yet agreed to a plan where so many things could go wrong.

    “But surely we can follow a similar course to the last time you made port?” Bard deliberated with Glorfindel and several others around the evening fire.

    “Last time?” Glorfindel squeaked. He was tightening a screw in his prosthetic hand. “What last time? This is the _first_ time. We have not set foot in that country since we left to go on this wretched venture.”

    Bard’s heart stilled with disbelief. “What? You’ve never gone back?”

    “Why would we?” said Galion, furrowing his brow at Bard. “We don’t have the gems to return to the Queen.”

    “Have you not been reporting back to her? What about the little display on the coast when you picked me up?”

    “We’ve always had Elros to make those reports for us. We travelled to Imladris often enough that Elrond would send word to his brother to inform the Queen of our whereabouts and next move,” Glorfindel explained in exasperation, turning a screw pointedly.

    “And as for when we picked you up, we didn’t _make port_. We were only hanging around to get the chest before running away again. We might have created a little fuss by showing up, but, blimey, we didn’t go _on land_ ,” said Lethuin, twisting one of his dreadlocks around his fingers restlessly. “Actually sneaking into Greenwood under the King’s nose is on a whole new level for us. I mean, we’re pirates, not assassins.”

    Feeling suddenly nauseous, Bard set down his bottle of rum on the deck. He had been counting on at least some of the crew to have experience with this, but it seemed to him that they were dead in the water on that front. Who could blame them, then, for being so afraid?

    “Are you confident in this plan?” Bard asked Thranduil after everyone had gone to bed.

    “Are you not?” Thranduil countered, his face impassive.

    “I don’t know. It’s such a risk.”

    “Time is running out to make it to Erebor before Oakenshield must ally himself with the King.” Thranduil climbed into the bed. Asfaloth was in his arms, purring loudly. He dropped her into a small depression in the sheets and she curled up at once to sleep. “The plan is sturdy enough as long as we don’t do anything foolish.”

    Bard snorted. “The whole thing is foolish.”

    Thranduil sighed. “I agree, but we’ve no other alternative. We simply cannot take the children with us to Erebor. They do not belong on a ship – or in a mountain, come to that.”

    “Yet you will allow Legolas to stay?” Bard said.

    Thranduil lay back on the bed, rubbing his face with his hands fretfully. Bard leaned over him, brushing the hair from his eyes.

    “Legolas is different.”

    “I know,” said Bard. “I just hope you know what you are getting into by letting him stay.”

    “I hope so too.”

 

    When the day approached to anchor the ship, everyone was jittery with nerves.

    Most of Greenwood on the eastern edge was forestation, and beyond its density were remote farms and villages that did not see the _Eryn Lasgalen_ bobbing near the mouth of the Celduin River, carrying with it some forty illegal persons.

    Despite their fears, the pirates also brimmed with courage. Bard could feel it radiating from them; the sheer determination to outwit and defy a King, and bring down a dynasty.

    The first to leave the ship was Nimrodel and Lethuin, carrying a carefully written and sealed letter from Thranduil to the Queen. They left in the early morning after a cold, sleepless night. The crew eased them down to the water and watched them row to the river, both a bit pale, but resolute and strong. Feren and Mithrellas stood at the railing, ahead of everyone else. Bard knew they were praying for the safety of the other two.

    The remaining preparations were made over the course of the next three hours, with the aim to give Nimrodel and Lethuin ample time to inform the Queen of Thranduil’s arrival and then return to the ship without drawing attention to themselves. There were five longboats left and four of them were packed carefully with food, weapons and blankets, for the journey along the river would take until dusk, providing them the cover of night to walk to the palace.

    When at last they were ready to leave, the longboats were lowered onto the water and the children ushered in with four or five of them to each boat. Elrond and Glorfindel were to row the first boat, Feren and Amroth the second, Galion and Tauriel the third, and Bard and Thranduil brought up the rear in the fourth boat.

    “What are we to do if the worst should happen?” said Meludir, catching Thranduil by the arm before he descended.

    Bard paused on his way down the ladder, listening intently with his heart in his throat, a place he was oddly accustomed to it ending up.

    “If we don’t return by sunset tomorrow, sail to Erebor. Leave as quickly as you can. Do not look back.”

    “But what if –”

    “Do not come and rescue us.”

    Bard hastened down when he heard Thranduil approaching. He dropped into the longboat, grabbing one of the oars and staring fixedly across the water, which was bright with the glow of the midday sun, sparkling serenely and untroubled, unlike those who lingered upon it.

    Legolas was sitting next to Bard (he had insisted on coming along to ensure his friends’ protection). He was talking soothingly to a girl who was crying. Bard rested a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder as Thranduil got into the boat.

    The Celduin River was flanked on either side by trees, which were cast in green and gold and burning red. Bard though it must be autumn for the forest to have taken on such colours. But it did not ease their cavernous, oppressive growth around the river into Greenwood. To the west, bleak mountains rose from the painted forest, peaking into the clouds. The further they rowed along the river, the colder and darker it became. The trees encased them in a tunnel of leaves and twisting branches which dipped down to the river’s edge and drank from the water like thirsty Boa Constrictors.

    Thankfully, the river flowed downstream, allowing minimal effort from the rowers. But regardless of this, after three hours of unremitted rowing, the muscles in Bard’s arms had begun to burn with strain against the oars. But he did not stop, and neither did the others.

    They were waiting for Nimrodel and Lethuin to return with news. Thranduil had arranged for them to cross paths on the river and exchange information before continuing, but as the day wore on and the rowers grew steadily more tired, their tension and anxiety mounted, for if Nimrodel and Lethuin did not come back, they would be forced to turn around and conduct a rescue.

    It was nearing sunset when Feren and Amroth (being the strongest of the group, they had involuntarily taken the lead) cried out and pointed ahead, where a single longboat was ploughing upstream towards them. Bard breathed a sigh of relief and stopped rowing, glad for a chance to relax his arms.

    Nimrodel and Lethuin came sailing over, both with triumphant looks on their faces. They sidled up next to Bard and Thranduil. Bard and Lethuin both reached over to grab onto each other’s boats to hold them steady.

    “The Queen has read your letter. She is already organising a ship to take the children to Imladris,” Nimrodel beamed.

    “You gave it to her directly?” said Thranduil.

    “Of course,” she said indignantly. “She says she will be waiting for you at the end of the passage in the dungeons. Do you remember how to get in from the outside?”

    “Six down, five across on the left?” Thranduil recited at once.

    Nimrodel nodded. “She’s so excited to see you.”

    Thranduil smiled, his eyes overbright. “What took you so long? I expected us to meet sooner.”

    “We stopped to get some supples,” Nimrodel explained, pulling back a blanket on the boat to reveal a mass of bread, fruits, vegetables, and bottles of rum and water.

    “I did not give you permission,” Thranduil said sternly.

    Nimrodel rolled her eyes. “ _You’re welcome_. Honestly, Captain, I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy surviving the week to Erebor on scraps and bad rum.”

    Thranduil shook his head at her, but smiled again. “Go, then. The others will be worried for you.”

    Bard let go of the boat. The other two fell back a few yards so that Lethuin and Feren could exchange a few words. Bard watched them kiss with a dull ache in his heart. He was glad he and Thranduil were together for this, despite the risk. After all this time, he would still not stand to be left behind, for any reason.

    The sun had sunk below the horizon by the time they reached the waterfall. Bard could hear it rushing and roaring a mile ahead of them as the forest scattered and gave way to an immense harbour town. He felt a blow of familiarity as he saw the narrow, winding streets of Laketown he knew every corner of, and the docks that stretched out across the beach, greeting the merchant ships he used to load with barrels of fish. Bard never thought he would feel so unwelcome in a place he had once called home.

    Thranduil signalled hastily as they approached the waterfall. The flow of the river was quickening and forcing them to veer to the left where it gushed down into the valley stream below. With a tremendous effort against the current, the rowers urged the longboats to the right side of the river, near a lush green field where cows grazed by the woods. The boats bumped and jostled on the bank of the river. Bard and Thranduil leapt out and held theirs still for the children to come ashore. The others did the same, and then all four boats were dragged into the trees and covered with branches and shrubs.

    Retrieving their weapons and clothes, the pirates added layers to themselves. Bard was wearing is old Navy uniform, which Orophin had dug up from the hold and let out a bit at the seams, as it was now too small. Bard fiddled with its high neck uncomfortably, feeling dishonest and out of place. Similarly, Glorfindel was wearing the finest garbs he owned, which had been pressed and cleaned down to the shine on the buckles of his shoes. Presently, he was doing up the buttons on his coat, looking disgruntled. The others were behaving much the same, attempting to fashion themselves into ordinary townsfolk, rather than the dirty, unkempt pirates they were.

    “It’s time to split up,” Thranduil said. He was looking at the children, who were casting nervous glances at the town. “Who doesn’t know the way to the bakery?”

    Four children put their hands up. Thranduil paired them off with Galion, Feren, Amroth and Tauriel. Then, he proceeded to separate everyone else. Those who were confident enough to navigate their way to the bakery alone were to go alone, while the others were in twos and threes so as to stick together, but not look conspicuous. Legolas paired himself with Thranduil, while Elrond, Glorfindel and Bard were keeping lookout disguised as persons of rank.

    The objective was to blend in. No one would think twice of children roaming the streets by themselves if they were in rags, and no one would question why a Lord and a Navy Sailor would be walking together to the palace. And as for Elrond, he was also wearing his finest tunic and robes and he passed spectacularly for the Lord that he was. Bard was so used to seeing him in grimy shirts and slacks that he had quite forgotten who Elrond really was.

    “Now, it is _imperative_ that you do not get caught,” Thranduil reminded them, lifting his hat (a simpler, smaller cavalier) and stuffing his hair underneath it. “We are counting on folk not to be curious of us, so whatever you do, refrain from any suspicious activity. Wait behind the bakery until everyone else comes. You have until the town clock strikes seven to get there. If you wish to remain in Greenwood, I will leave without you. You are free now, after all.”

    There were a few exchanged glances of curiosity between the children, but they all agreed with Thranduil’s rule. Rolling back his shoulders, he took Legolas by the hand and began to walk down the dirt road to the harbour town.

    Bard watched as, by one’s and two’s and three’s, the children darted down the path, some veering off it to slip into the town another way, while others following Thranduil discreetly, concealed in the gathering darkness. Tauriel went with her charge, and so did Feren and Amroth and Galion. Then Elrond, and finally it was time for Bard and Glorfindel to make their way down.

    “Relax,” Glorfindel muttered to Bard as they came upon the market square, where people were doing last minute shopping or slinking off to taverns and brothels. Bard was struck by the memory of haggling fish prices at the stall on the right, and of running into a pretty girl by the fountain in the centre. He took a deep breath, keeping an eye on the soldiers patrolling the streets and the horse carriages pulling along nobility.

    “If you don’t relax, you’re going to blow our cover,” Glorfindel said gruffly, tipping his hat politely to a pair of women who were staring at them as they passed in the street.

    “How do you do that?” Bard said, glancing back at the two women, who were giggling behind their embroidered gloves.

    “Do what?” said Glorfindel. He had taken a graceful, easy elegance in his stride, his gloved hands behind his back and his chin high and proud.

    “Act so… noble.” Bard couldn’t think of another way to phrase it.

    Glorfindel smiled. “I was born into nobility, Bard. My father is the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, and I was his heir.”

    “I don’t know much about the Houses here. I don’t understand them,” Bard said absently, catching sight of one of the children dashing around a corner, barely a ghost among the tall, richly-dressed men and women who were walking towards the palace. Bard wondered if there was perhaps a play on at the theatre, judging by how many were dressed in their Sunday best.

    “The Houses don’t originate here. My ancestors are from Gondolin, the old country, and certain members lived here as representatives. But, when Gondolin fell, we were forced to retreat to Greenwood where we had family and estate, and from the bottom we rose up again…”

    While Glorfindel went off on a tangent about the history of the Houses, Bard felt paranoid that the people in the street could see him for what he truly was. It wasn’t possible that he made a convincing sailor. His shoes were wrong, and his tunic too tight, and his sword was not regulation. How was it that he no longer passed for the sailor he once had been? When had his Navy career ended, and the piracy begun? He couldn’t discern a concrete moment of being aware of the transition. There were some days when he even forgot he had been a sailor at all, and that piracy was all he knew. It was like he was forgetting himself entirely.

    Out of the corner of his eye, Bard saw a flash of red in the crowd. Tauriel was ahead of them, smiling down at the girl holding her hand. She made a convincing mother, though if you got close enough it was clear she was far too young. They hurried through the crowd, talking animatedly, Tauriel pulling her bonnet lower over her eyes every now and then.

    The milling crowd around them grew in number as they drew nearer to the palace, Glorfindel still talking Bard’s ear off about his ancestry. The gates of the castle were in sight now, dark and looming over the town like bared animal teeth. The crowd was moving to the side of it where the theatre was, tucked away in a grand extension of the castle. Bard and Glorfindel broke off to the left to a little shop at the end of the street that had a selection of cakes in its window. They loitered there for a while, pretending to admire the display, before slipping around the side of the building and jumping over a low wall, unnoticed in the dim and noise.

    They were some of the last to arrive, having left at the end. Only Elrond was missing, and four children. Everyone else was sitting against the wall on the grass out of sight, looking flushed and fidgety.

    “It’s nearly time,” Thranduil said as Bard hastened over to him, loosening his tunic, which was making breathing difficult as its small size was beginning to compress him. “Oh, here’s Elrond.”

    Elrond had just leapt over the wall, followed by four more children. They had all, it seemed, decided to stick to the plan.

    Thranduil did a quick head-count. Apparently satisfied, he wasted no time in ushering the party to the monstrous castle, which sat high and domineering at the head of the town, brought up impressively by the snow-capped Grey Mountains in the north. It was perched over the river, which snaked around and passed Laketown, creating a type of barrier between the King and Queen and the rest of Greenwood. The hill was a steep fall if anyone was to stray too far in the dark.

    But Thranduil knew his way blind. They were running, skirting the castle walls and buttresses. Bard could see the faint outline of trees and shrubs ahead of them, and a high, unclimbable wall that he supposed enclosed the palace gardens. He caught Thranduil up.

    “How are we supposed to get over that?” he panted.

    “We’re not,” Thranduil said, slowing to a walk. “The entrance is here.”

    They all stopped so that he could examine the stone of the castle, squinting in the dark and feeling with his hands. Irritated, he reached up and tossed his hat off to the ground, casting out his long hair so that he could see properly. He was muttering to himself, apparently looking for a marking of some kind.

    “Ah.” He had found it.

    He counted the bricks in the wall. Six down, five across. He pushed this brick in, and it gave way, going in and in and in until, with a loud clatter of stone-on-stone, it fell through completely to the other side of the wall, exposing a rectangular hole. Thranduil reached into it all the way to the shoulder and flicked something with his hand. Grinding and echoing, grooves appeared in the wall, opening up into an archway that led right into the castle.

    “Okay,” Bard breathed in the silence that followed. “For once, I am quite impressed.”

    Thranduil couldn’t have supressed his smirk even if he tried. He stood back and let everyone inside before himself. The archway entered a dark, sightless passageway. There were no torches, nor brackets to hold them if there were. As Thranduil replaced the fallen brick and pulled the lever to close the door, they became encased in total blackness.

    “Now what?” came Legolas’ voice.

    “Glorfindel?” said Thranduil.

    “Oh!”

    There was a scuffle, a scraping sound, a blinding flash, and Glorfindel lit a torch. He handed it to Thranduil, who took the head of the party and started down the passageway. It was made of stone, like the rest of the castle, but in places here and there the earth was starting to take it back, the tree roots digging deep and breaking through.

    The passageway went on forever, Bard was convinced of this. They had been walking for more than half an hour. Vaguely aware that they were going slightly downhill and to the right, his fear of what was on the other side (if, by some God-given miracle there even _was_ an other side) began to mount with increasing pressure. He began to feel tired and wretched, wishing he could take off his uniform, wishing he could have water, and some rest. Behind him, the children were shuffling their feet, exhausted from the long day and from the tension on their poor nerves. Bard could hear Legolas urging them to keep going, unyielding in his hope and faith.

    “Nearly there,” Thranduil murmured.

    “How far down have we gone?” Bard asked. He could feel a draft filtering in, like a great beast breathing oxygen into the tunnel.

    “About two miles.”

    Bard felt as though he had left his heart and stomach back at the entrance.

    “Two miles?! But… don’t we have to go back up?”

    “Yes,” Thranduil said grimly.

    There was no light at the end, but Bard knew they had reached it because Thranduil stopped. Everyone crowded in behind him as he held the firelight up to the stone wall, looking for something. A small, engraved lever, just above his head. He yanked it, and the wall gave way, shifting aside to reveal a musty, cavernous dungeon.

    There was no sound, and no light, and no one. In the orange glow of the torch, Bard could see wine barrels stacked to one side of the room, and a cage of animal bones in a corner, but there was no sign of a person, much less the Queen.

    “Where is she?” muttered Galion.

    Thranduil looked confused, but not overly concerned. He took a few steps forward and found, in the light cast on the floor, a cat. Dust-coloured, squash-faced and unusually large for a domestic animal, it was grooming itself complacently by the entrance. It paused, looked at Thranduil, and then sat up.

    Thranduil evidently knew why this cat was here because he proceeded to pull a few strands of hair from his scalp. He let the cat smell him, and then tied the hair around its bottle-brush tail. It meowed very loudly, and then slunk away into the darkness of the dungeon, up a flight of concrete steps.

    “A messenger,” Thranduil explained.

    “Should we wait?” said Tauriel.

    “No, he is quicker than us. Let’s go now.”

    Thranduil closed the entrance to the passageway behind them. The door formed into a solid wall, indiscernible from the rest of the dungeon. Thranduil and his troupe of pirates and children cross the room to the stairs. Bard did not like the atmosphere of the dungeon, which smelled of damp earth and death.

    The steps were steep and as endless as the tunnel they had just left. Very soon, Bard’s legs were seizing with each movement, his breathing coming in heaves and gasps. The dusty cat was nowhere to be seen, having streaked off ahead of them in seconds.

    “What’s the point of this dungeon?” Tauriel wheezed. “There was nothing down there.”

    “It’s simply to disguise the existence of the passageway,” Thranduil told her from the front. “Everyone knows there is a dungeon here, and how tiresome it is to come down for nothing at all. As a result, very few people know about the passageway, and the King is not among those few.”

    “And what about the cat?” said Feren.

    “He’s not really a cat,” Thranduil said.

    “So what is he?”

    “We aren’t sure, but he’s lived in the palace for longer than anyone can remember. He was here when my mother was a child, and when her mother was a child.”

    “So he’s a ghost?”

    “He looked pretty solid to me,” said Elrond. “A werecat, perhaps?”

    “Most likely,” said Thranduil, nodding his head. Then, he lowered his voice. “We’re at the top. Stay quiet.”

    He crept up the remaining steps to another door. The children shifted uneasily on the lower stairs, peering over the tops of each other’s heads. Legolas in particular grabbed hold of Bard’s coat, standing on tip toe to try and see what Thranduil was doing.

    He lifted the latch on the handle and the door creaked open, adding to ominous, perilous feeling of the dungeon. Peering out onto the landing, Bard could hear him whispering to someone there. Then, he stepped back and pushed the door open fully, urging everyone forward.

    Bard only glimpsed the Queen at first. There was no time for pleasantries just yet. Almost paralysed with fear of being caught, he vaguely heard her tell them to make for the door at the end of the corridor.

    The part of the palace they had come up in was deserted to the left and straight ahead. In the rising full moon breaking through the wide, obtrusive gothic windows, the curtains and floors were cast in a strange, ethereal indigo blue. No candles or torches were lit. The palace felt other-worldly; like Bard had stepped into a dream or, much more likely, a nightmare.

    Taking Legolas by the hand, he broke into a jog down the corridor ahead, which had two guards stationed at a set of double doors at its end. Though the footsteps of the children were careful and soft, it still sounded to Bard like a stampede, alerting the whole castle to their presence. His heart in his throat now and his hand on the door, he pushed his way into the room and moved aside for everyone to pass him, doing a head-count almost unconsciously.

    They had entered a large, warmly lit parlour, elegantly furnished with chase lounges, small tables with vases of flowers, cabinets of rare china and crystal, and, above a crackling fire behind a grate, a plaque of two crossed swords, emblazoned with a coat of arms Bard had never seen before. The dusty, mythical cat was sitting on a large cushion by the fire, watching the scene with sharp, yellow eyes.

    The last inside was Thranduil, accompanied by the Queen. Bard had never seen any of the monarchs who ruled the country he had grown up in. Nemireth was an astounding vision, dressed in a gown of creamy white that complimented the colour of her hair, which could have been woven by the stars themselves.

    She was not very old, Bard was surprised to see. Her skin, pale and unblemished, bore no signs of youth, but neither of age. She looked as timeless as the sea, and equally as beautiful.

    As soon as the door was closed and bolted, she embraced Thranduil, holding him so tightly it was a wonder she managed to let go. Despite their similarities in appearance, Nemireth was so finely dressed – so immaculately done-up and proper – that it was difficult to believe the scuffed-shoed, raggedy man in front of her was her son. Bard had often stated that Thranduil still bore signs of nobility in his stride and manner and temperament, and while that reigned true even now, he was truly nothing more than a filthy, rum-soaked pirate.

    “Did anyone see you?” said Nemireth, speaking clearly now. Her voice was light and crisp, like what Bard thought champagne might taste like.

    Thranduil shook his head. “We were caught up in a crowd heading to the theatre. No one paid us any mind.”

    “Good. I already have a ship waiting in the harbour, but I thought the children might want to rest and eat for the night before sailing.”

    “Are you certain they will be safe here?” Thranduil asked, turning to face them.

    “The King is away on business in Rohan, and I trust my guards. We will not be disturbed. Sit. I want to hear everything.”


	20. Dead in the Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much speculation, I decided to change the POV for this chapter and the next, given the unique circumstances. I was eager to write with Thranduil's voice, as he does so often keep things to himself. I hope you enjoy this chapter and, as always, thank you for leaving kudos and comments.

It was as though he had entered a dream. Still floor, hot tea, and a thousand memories washing over him. He knew these walls, these halls lined with portraits of former generations of men and women he had once called family – who still were his family, in many ways that he could not quite articulate to anyone, or himself.

    The curtains were the same; that was the first thing Thranduil noticed. His mother had had this habit of skirting passed them, her jewelled fingers brushing the tassels as a tiny wrinkle formed in her nose.

    “We ought to get new curtains for the castle,” she would say to Thranduil when they walked together to lessons or dinner. “This azure just won’t do.”

    She always called colours by curious names; it was never simply blue.

    “What colour would you choose?” Thranduil would always ask, for her answer was different every time. He could decipher her moods based on the colour she supplied. If she said green (pear green, specifically), she might have been in a humble mood, and Thranduil could often persuade her to let him skip lessons and take him to the theatre that evening. If she said yellow (“daffodil, or butterscotch?”), she was happy, but fierce, which was when Thranduil liked her best, because she would let servants retire early, or go riding in the woods for hours.

    But sometimes she would simply shrug, and the tassels would fall from her hands without comment, and Thranduil knew she was sad that day.

    He thought his mother must be unhappier than she let on if the curtains were still the same after all these years.

    “You look a mess,” she said affectionately, pulling Thranduil out of his reverie and moving to brush back his hair.

    He shifted away from her fingers automatically, afraid to dirty her, afraid to… contaminate her with years of heartache. His torn, sea-worn clothes were filthy and his skin was caked with sweat and salt. He didn’t want to shift the unwholesome parts of the sea unto her.

    How could he come here – a broken man, empty handed – and face his Queen? He had promised her everything, and yet returned with nothing.

    Thranduil wanted to tell her how sorry he was; sorry he didn’t have the gems, sorry he had taken so long to come back, and to come back unclean and without hope. But he struggled to speak to his mother at all, though she had nothing but kind words and warm touches for him. He felt ashamed and unworthy to meet her gaze, or be in her presence.

    But, God, how he missed her. He hadn’t fully realised it until now, but Thranduil missed his mother so much it seemed to drive a stake through his chest. Even now, within arm’s reach, it did not feel like they were truly together. There was so much he wanted to say, and yet there weren’t words enough to say them.

    If there was any goodness to come from that evening, it was how much Nemireth took to Legolas. She singled him out among the children at once, commenting on the point of his nose and the colour of his hair, which were the same as hers. She fussed over the state of his clothes and the bruises on his arms and legs like a harassed grandmother.

    “Thranduil said I can be a pirate just like him!” Legolas crowed, beaming up at the Queen.

    Nemireth looked at Thranduil sharply and he flinched, more out of instinct than real trepidation.

    “He demanded to stay. He will not go with the other children,” he said calmly.

    “Well, that is no cause for concern,” placated his mother. “You shan’t be a pirate forever.”

    Thranduil did not meet her gaze when she said this, but fixed his eyes on the rug beneath his feet where he had trodden the dirt from his boots.

    “Why not?” Legolas piped up, sounding quite distressed. “I thought you had to always be a pirate.”

    “Thranduil’s not really a pirate, sweetheart. He is more… of a philanthropist.”

    Thranduil scowled and leaned back on the lounge, deciding to hold his tongue because he knew the retort he longed to say would only upset his mother. Across the room, he caught Bard’s eye and knew he was listening, despite showing a girl how to flip a dagger. Like him, the others were passing the time while Thranduil and the Queen conversed (he filled her in on the goings-on of the past several months, telling her about the dragon and their quest to Erebor, and she in turn provided any information she discovered herself, though her findings were distinctly… lacking Thranduil was sad to see. From what he gathered, she had spent most of her time attending soirees and dabbling in politics just to irritate the King). The pirates browsed through books or talking quietly to one another. Nemireth had already addressed them all individually, conveying her gratitude. Tauriel she greeted with amazement after learning she was one of the first of the slaves to be freed by Thranduil, and Elrond she recognised at once as an equal and commended him emphatically on his efforts towards her cause, and that of his own many years ago.

    “Oh, and you must be Amroth, Amdir’s son,” she said, sizing up Amroth’s substantial figure. “You do look a great deal like your father – no, I do not mean offense. I daresay you do not appreciate the resemblance, but you cannot deny it is a good one. A handsome man, your father, but it is a crying shame to see him still puttering around in Lothlorien.” Amroth smirked, bowing genially at her compliment.

    Glorfindel, Feren and Galion were greeted like long-lost sons. Nemireth embraced them like her own children, as they had been among the first to sail for her, and for Thranduil.

    “Glorfindel, your hair is so long – so wretchedly out of fashion – you ought to have it cut. It was barely passed your shoulders the last time we saw each other. Time is dreadful to us, isn’t it? And look that hand! What a marvel! May I see?”

    While she examined Glorfindel’s prosthetic hand, Thranduil overheard her whispered words.

    “I’m sorry about Ecthelion.”

    She turned to Bard then, examining his rumpled, slightly too-small Navy uniform and jewel-encrusted sword, trying to put two-and-two together.

    “Who is this?” she asked.

    Bard, always polite and unassuming, bowed. “I’m Bard.”

    “A Sailor, I see?”

    “Not anymore,” he said.

    “Yes, you do look a bit out of regulation. What is your position?”

    “On Thranduil’s ship? I’m First Mate.”

    “First Mate?” Nemireth grinned coyly. “Aren’t you just?”

    Thranduil’s eyes immediately fell to the floor to avoid her gaze, rubbing his neck awkwardly, for Bard had all but given them away by addressing Thranduil so informally. Everyone (except Glorfindel and Tauriel) referred to Thranduil as ‘Captain.’

    Bard, realising his mistake at once, flushed all the way to his ears and excused himself to see to the children.

    Overall, it was a warmer welcome than Thranduil had expected. He had been counting on leaving within the hour, but it seemed the rest of his crew were in no hurry to forego the crackling fire and tea and comfort, just as Nemireth was unwilling to let them. Thranduil doubted she’d had very much pleasant company as of late. Politics and etiquette did not quench her thirst for adventure – for great, all-encompassing waves and rope burn and new worlds. But her place was here, in the palace, making the biggest sacrifice of all.

     She was explaining to Legolas what a philanthropist was when Tauriel approached Thranduil, sitting on floor by his legs and scrutinising him with those wide, hazel eyes of hers. They knew things, her eyes. Tauriel had this way of understanding people when they sometimes did not understand themselves.

    “What’s wrong?” she asked.

    “Nothing,” Thranduil said. He reached down and twisted a strand of her hair around his finger, licking his skin like flame. “We ought to be getting back soon. We cannot linger here.”

    His mother overheard this and paused in the middle of her lecture.

    “Why not? Surely you can stay a night,” she said, her eyes narrow. “You are perfectly safe here while your father isn’t around. He will be gone for another week at the very least.”

    Thranduil bit back another retort. By what right did she still call that man by such a title?

    “My men are waiting for me back at the ship,” he managed stiffly.

    “Oh, don’t give me that. They will survive the night without you, I’m sure. I can set you up in the north tower, how does that sound?”

    “Mother, please –” Thranduil began.

    “I’ll have someone sent into town in the morning for any supplies you might need. And of course you are welcome to ransack the kitchens. I hate to think of poor rations for your journey to Erebor. I have heard some horror stories from the sailors down in the harbour. I ought to organise better provisions for those chaps when they go out to sea, but I must admit I haven’t really the heart to improve your father’s Navy.”

    Everyone laughed at this, except Bard and Thranduil.

    “I think it might be worth it to kip here,” Tauriel reasoned from the floor. “It’s too dark and cold to travel upstream now.”

    “At least your crew talks sense, Thranduil,” Nemireth admonished.

    Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Fine. But we leave at first light.”

    His mother looked ecstatic, which made Thranduil feel slightly sick. He was putting her in danger by staying here, his father’s absence be damned.

    Clapping her hands, Nemireth urged everyone to their feet and they left the parlour, locking the children inside and venturing out into the labyrinthine hallways. The candelabras had been lit again and the dull indigo was cut sharp with crisp orange flame that carried the company through the palace. Bard hovered uncertainly at Thranduil’s shoulder, which was a merciful comfort. The palace was no longer wholly familiar to him, but Bard was.

    The north tower was behind the Queen’s chambers on the third floor of the castle. Up a spiral staircase and onto a narrow landing, the pirates were led to four rooms (two on the first landing, and two up another flight of stairs). These chambers were kept for visiting gentry and were therefore lavishly furnished with high, four-poster beds, finely carved wardrobes and tables, and even, to Thranduil’s immense delight, a bathtub.

    “Food and wine will be brought up shortly… and some clean clothes,” said Nemireth, observing Thranduil’s grubby shirt with a look of disdain. “I will come wake you at dawn and provide a carriage that will take you back to your ship.”

    “We need to retrieve our longboats,” Thranduil said.

    “Where are they?”

    “By the river.”

    “I’ll have them picked up and delivered tonight. What about supplies? I can have everything sent directly to your ship.”

    Thranduil recited a short list, which consisted mostly of food, water and rope, and then bid his mother goodnight after a servant finished lighting a fire in the grate. He and Bard had taken the very last room, which had a view of the sea far across the harbour. Bard was leaning against the frame of the window, staring out over the town.

    “This doesn’t feel real,” he murmured.

    Thranduil nodded. “I never thought I would be back here.”

    Something Thranduil had accepted, above all else, was that he would never look upon his home again after leaving it. Deep down, he had known he would never return. And, really, he hadn’t, because he was longer the frightened, innocent young man he had been several years ago. He was older now, and he was tired. All that was left of him belonged to the sea.

    And to Bard.

    “It doesn’t feel right, sleeping here while everyone else is back on the ship. It isn’t fair.”

    “I know,” said Thranduil, joining Bard by the window. “But they will be all right. The arrival of food will cheer them up, I have no doubt.”

    “Can we trust the Queen’s servants?” Bard inquired, shooting Thranduil that knowing look of his.

    “She has her network of people who are loyal to her completely. She is like a spider in the middle of an ever-growing web; we are safe here.”

    To Thranduil’s surprise, Bard smirked at this. “That sounds like someone else I know.”

    Thranduil glared at him. “I’m not my mother, Bard.”

    “I did not say you were.”

    “Then why –?”

    “What’s wrong?”

    Thranduil started, letting the question ring in the air like a bad tune. Bard was watching him, arms folded, defiant and determined. If there was one thing Thranduil disliked about him, it was his incongruous way of getting Thranduil to talk. About anything.

    He sighed, turning so that his back was against the wall. The fire cast twisting, licking shadows over the room and, just as he was about to speak, there was a knock on the door and it opened.

    A maid came in, carrying a tray of food, water, tea and wine balanced precariously atop of a pile of clothes and towels. She curtsied expertly and then set the tray down on the table, leaving the fabrics on the edge of the bed with soap and brushes. Thranduil spied a dagger at her hip, hidden beneath an apron. She curtsied again, and left.

    “Perhaps it can wait,” said Bard, a smile playing on his lips.

    They sat down to eat, tearing into the bread and meat like they were weeks starved. It amused Thranduil how far withdrawn he was from royal society that he could not even bring himself to remember table manners or common etiquette. To think his mother expected him to return to his position as Prince when all this was over. Thranduil knew that a pirate’s life was a life apart, and a life forever. When he left the palace for the second time the next morning, he would be sure to not come back again for more than the time it would take to return the gems, if he was alive to return at all.

    After they had eaten their fill of food and water, Thranduil ran a bath. It was to the right of the fire, in the corner nearest the window. Hot water filled the copper tub and he stripped and climbed in. His body reacted at once to the heat and he nearly went into shock from the sensation, which felt like lacerations to the skin. But, resolutely, Thranduil sat, bearing the temporary pain, and Bard joined him seconds later.

    “Did you ask the Queen what day it is?” Bard asked some time later, when the water was getting cold and they had dwelled mostly in silence. He sat behind Thranduil, scrubbing his back with the brush.

    “It’s October fifth."

    Bard’s hand paused on the brush and Thranduil knew what he was thinking. They had been so long at sea without any way to know what day it was. Time passed only in days and weeks – in the rising and setting of the sun – and it was a linear all pirates and sailors grew accustomed to. They had not thought to ask after the day in Bree or Imladris or any of the places they had made port, for it never seemed to be of any importance. It always shocked and weighed heavy on his mind how much time Thranduil had let slip by without obtaining the gems.

    “It was April when you picked me up. That’s… six months,” said Bard, his voice an awed whisper.

    Thranduil nearly laughed. Had it been only six months? Perhaps that was an extensive amount of time for someone like Bard, who had barely been a sailor a year before becoming a pirate, but for Thranduil it was only six months closer to seven years; seven years of failure.

    “I missed my birthday,” Bard said, resuming the circling motions on Thranduil’s back.

    “So did I,” Thranduil nodded, wrapping his hands around his knees in the water. “I remember when I was three-and-twenty, we were at sea for such a long time that when I finally remembered to ask someone the date, we had missed two whole years and I was suddenly five-and-twenty.”

    Bard laughed.

    They finished cleaning and drained the water, which was brown and murky and left a dirty line around the inside of the tub. Naked in the gloom, Thranduil noticed how cold it was, even for the night time. Out at sea, the seasons varied mostly with how much rain there was. On the deck of a ship in the blistering sun, it was always warm, summer or winter. But in the shelter of the mountains and surrounded by trees, it was truly, honestly cold. Thranduil dressed in his new clothes quickly, thinking of Greenwood in the very north near the mountains where it snowed for most of the year.

    He was too troubled to sleep that night. The bed felt too soft and he couldn’t seem to shake the ache of foreboding in his chest, which always settled there when he wasn’t on his ship. Thranduil didn’t trust land – it was too secure and consistent in its habits. The sea was constantly changing and moving, carrying itself around the world, and Thranduil with it. On land he felt like a stranded fish, gasping for breath.

    The sun began to creep up over the horizon, bringing the dawn. In the pale, misty light climbing through the window, Thranduil gave up on forcing himself to sleep any more. He turned to face Bard, sleeping soundly on the right side, his arm flung carelessly over his face. Thranduil had always pondered him – at the bright-eyed, eager kindness of him – and why he had chosen to join a band of pirates. Thranduil couldn’t help but wonder what good thing he must have done for the heavens to bless him with Bard. He had lost so much – felt and caused so much suffering – and yet Thranduil had done something to deserve Bard.

    Sunlight fell into the room, casting it in a pale yellow. Thranduil stretched and got out of bed, intent on reigniting the fire, but never getting around to it.

    It seemed to happen all at once, yet he remembered every detail vividly.

    There was a _bang_ from somewhere in the castle, like a door being flung open. Moments later, Thranduil heard footsteps running up the stairs to his room. Bard evidently heard them too and stirred in the sheets. Thranduil snatched his sword from the table out of instinct and pointed it directly at the door.

    When it burst open, his mother stood there, still in her night things, her silver hair spilling out in starry curls.

    Thranduil lowered his sword and swept over to her.

    “What’s happened?” he said.

    “The King,” she panted, clutching a stitch in her side, “he’s returned early. He knows you’re here.”

    Behind Thranduil, Bard was already scrambling out of bed, pulling on his boots and clothes.

    “What do we do?” Thranduil asked his mother.

    He could feel it now; true fear, worming inside him like burning seawater. If they were caught, seven years would go to waste. His crew – his family – would be butchered.

    “You have to run. Follow the river back to the ship.”

    “But it is miles from here to the sea. They’ll catch us on foot!”

    “You have to run. Horses won’t go through the woods; the trees are too dense. You’re only chance is losing the soldiers in the trees. You know the land, Thranduil. The trees trust you.”

    Thranduil was beginning to panic now. The trees would not even recognise him; there was too much of the sea in him. He didn’t belong here anymore.

    “What about the children?”

    “They are safe for now. I can have them escorted away while the King pursues you.”

    Thranduil snarled. “You always know how to take advantage of a situation, don’t you?”

    Nemireth ignored this.

    “You have to leave now! Someone in the palace tipped Oropher off and he’s on his way over. Don’t worry about taking the secret passageway. You’ll be chased no matter what.”

    “Wake the others,” Thranduil said, and his mother sprinted out of the room.

    Bard was buckling on his weapons, his expression set and pale. Gathering his own things, Thranduil stared at him, wondering what would happen to Bard if they were captured. Thranduil was never afraid for his own life; he only ever felt fear for the others, for it was because of him they were here at all. If it wasn’t for him, they wouldn’t be in peril.

    It was chaos. Running footsteps could be heard and felt all through the tower as Nemireth alerted everyone in each bedroom. Bard and Thranduil hastened out onto the landing and down the stairs to find the others waiting for them, dressed in their new clothes, but looking none the better for it. They had no time to disguise themselves or find a secret way out of the country. It was a blind flight. It was desperation.

    Legolas was with them, having left the group of children in the parlour, firm to remain by Thranduil’s side. He looked worried. Thranduil took him by the hand and lead the way out of the tower, streaking through the corridors of the palace. Servants and maids cried out and stared in alarm as they ran passed, the curtains flying in the wake of their feet. Down marble staircases and around corners, Thranduil could suddenly remember every detail of his old home; he knew every secret passage and what was behind every locked door, and he was running away from it all again.

    The company burst out of the front doors of the castle, out on the gravel courtyard where the iron gates stood open, waiting for them. They skirted the fountain, singing fresh water from the mouths and hands of angels, and down the path that led into the town. Early morning shoppers and hung-over tavern goers scowled and yelled at them.

    As they turned right and made for the woods, Thranduil saw them out of the corner of his eye; galloping alongside the river that circled the castle, the King’s men on horses, pistols and swords brandished and bloodhounds at their hooves.

    Putting on another burst of speed, Thranduil broke into the trees, the others right behind him. He heard a pistol shot and the bullet cracked through a branch overhead, making Tauriel scream. They pushed on, nearing the trees that were thicker and where the canopy enclosed them from the rest the world, shielding them in unwavering darkness. Thranduil could hear the soldiers shouting, trying to hack at the branches the further in they rode. The dogs were barking furiously and sniffing the ground, searching for their hunt.

    “Dismount!” a soldier cried. “They won’t get far in there. Remember; take them in alive.”

    Thranduil and the others had stopped running now. It was impossible in the density of the trees, which seemed to grow in and out of each other, twisting and snagging on their clothes and hair. Thranduil remembered being a child and exploring these woods. The trees had known him, then. They had shown him hidden paths and lifted him up into the boughs and leaves to sleep and play. But now they barred his way and tugged and scratched, trying to stop him and his crew from invading.

    The barking of the dogs told them how far away the soldiers were and they never seemed to be more than a few hundred yards behind. Bruised, lacerated and choking with exhaustion, the pirates fought the trees, tripping and stumbling over roots and broken branches. Some distance to their left, they could hear the river rushing beside them, faster and gentler than the route they were taking.

    “I can’t –”

    It was Tauriel. She was lagging behind, her small frame beaten and her chest heaving, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t go on.”

    Thranduil fell back to her, taking her hand and squeezing it hard. A dog barked again, sending a tremor through his spine.

    “You can do it. We’ve nearly lost them,” he told her, though it wasn’t true in the slightest.

    Tauriel stumbled forward a few more paces, whimpering. The others, too, looked just as defeated, their faces scraped and their clothes ripped.

    “We should cross the river,” said Elrond. “The dogs will lose our scent in the water.”

    “If we make it across in time,” said Feren bleakly.

    “It’s worth a try,” said Glorfindel.

    The rest nodded, and Thranduil pulled Tauriel along. Despairing, they gathered what strength they had left and started to the river, which could not yet been seen through the trees. But they listened, waiting for the moment when it would come into view. The soldiers were falling back, the dogs evidently confused by the sudden change in direction. But not for long. The pirates hurried, seeing flecks of white and blue coming through the trunks and branches now. The river was close.

    It was barely half a mile across, but the current was strong where they had arrived. Bard and Legolas went in first, wading into the shallows and then moving to swim. Elrond, Galion, Feren and Amroth followed them

    The water was cold in the early morning, still icy from the long autumn night. It weighed down Thranduil’s clothes and weapons, making it difficult to move quickly, especially with the current beating against him, trying to dislodge his footing on the rocks underwater.

    “Let me go!”

    He turned, stumbling, to see that Tauriel was still ashore. She was surrounded by soldiers, who had her restrained. Thranduil had not heard the dogs’ barking get so close, but now that he saw them, they were loud and thunderous, tugging furiously on their leashes to rip into flesh.

    Though she kicked and struggled, Tauriel was no match for the King’s men. Thranduil splashed back onto the bank to help her, drawing his sword.

    The soldiers were upon him at once. Disoriented and numb, he took on four at once and was disarmed in seconds. They kicked him to the ground, dragging him across the rocks. Ahead of him, Tauriel was practically gnashing her teeth in her fury and desire to escape, strong enough to stagger the two soldiers holding her, but not to make them release their grip.

    As the soldiers converged on Thranduil and pinned him to the ground, he saw several others plunge into the water to grab the rest of his crew. Splashing, fighting and snarling, they were hauled like fish to the river’s edge, their weapons confiscated and thrown into a pile. Thranduil’s sword and pistols were taken off him as well, his arms forced painfully behind him.

    “No wonder the King was so keen to get his hands on these rats,” said an amused soldier. He grabbed Thranduil by the hair and yanked him up to see his face. “He will be very relieved to make the statement about his son’s death a truthful one.”

    Thranduil jerked his head from the soldier’s grip and spat on the ground vehemently. Looking up, he saw the others still fighting their restraints, though Galion and Glorfindel were already in handcuffs and Elrond and Amroth were being held at gunpoint, seething with rage. Feren had evidently managed to throw off his captors momentarily because he, like Thranduil, had been shoved to the ground, held down by five men. Thranduil was astounded at how many there were; it had practically been an army chasing after them.

    Vaguely, in is hazy, semi-conscious state, Thranduil noticed that Bard and Legolas were not among them. His heart seized with fright and he whipped his head around to see if they were simply not in his line of sight.

    But there, he glimpsed them. Far across the muddy river they were disappearing into the trees.


	21. Family Matters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys like it! Thanks for reading as always.

They were put in separate cells. Dark, smelling of rancid straw and wet flagstone, water dripping down the cracks from the foundations above. It had started to rain; cold, fat water spit through the high windows of the dungeon as they hit the ground-level pavement outside, flecking the walls with wet spots. Thranduil flung himself uselessly at the bars of his cell as they shut on him with a clang. He heard the same go for the others, but did not see them, for the walls between each cell were made from rough-hewn stone. In the gathering silence, he heard Feren swear passionately, the bars of his cell ringing as he struck them.

    Thranduil slumped against the wall away from the spritzing window, hanging his head between his legs. He felt nauseous, but not enough to actually be sick. He was disgusted with himself for getting the others caught. It was fine by him if he never saw another sunrise, but he had never wanted such a fate for his crew – for his friends.

    He wondered what would happen to them. Hanged, surely, and publicly, to emphasise the King’s intolerance of pirates. Thranduil would likely by tossed to the sea, finally meeting the unfortunate death his father had spread about his disappearance all these years.

    He thought of Bard, fleeing into the trees with Legolas. Thranduil knew he would come and rescue them, being the foolish man that he was. Bard, who was dedicated and caring, would risk everything to free them.

    But Thranduil could not allow this. He wished he had drilled into Bard the importance of moving on without him. He could escape on his own just fine – he had done it many times – and, if not, Bard had to take the rest of the crew to Erebor. He couldn’t waste his time on a rescue that was only likely to get him captured as well. He had to complete the mission; that was always the priority of the crew. The duty of those aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_ was to serve the Queen, not themselves, or each other.

    And yet there was no chance of this. Not anymore. Seven years before the mast… the crew was practically family, and after only six months Bard was more loyal to them than any Queen – how could he be otherwise? He had trusted the King in his youth only to have it be for naught, so why on earth would he bother himself with any other monarch? In many ways, Thranduil felt the same – loyal to his crew before his Queen. He had come to learn the difference between choosing to sacrifice your life for someone, and being asked to. And his crew had never asked him.

    They were left to the silence for hours. Nobody spoke, though Thranduil could hear Tauriel crying every now and then. He felt the most pity for her, as she was so young and inexperienced. He had always hoped to protect her from the world’s evils; to keep her eyes bright and joyful and free from despair. But the world made it too hard. It always killed goodness where it thought there was too much.

    It was well past midday when the door to the dungeons opened. It was still raining. It felt like it would never stop. Thranduil was starving, his throat coarse with thirst, but the visitor was not there to provide food or water. With his face pressed against the bars, he watched a soldier – a Captain, in fact, accompanied by three, lower-ranking men – approach one of the cells nearest the door and open it. Galion was hauled out and shackled. Glaring and practically frothing at the mouth, he was pushed roughly out of the dungeons and up the stairs in the passageway beyond.

    Thranduil’s knuckles were white around the bars with rage. How dare they remove his men before himself? He was a Captain – he was a former Prince! – did that mean nothing to the King anymore?

    “What’s going on?” came Tauriel’s voice.

    It was Amroth who swore this time, his oath vibrating through the walls.

    “Feren! Pass me your coat!” said Glorfindel in the cell next to Thranduil’s. He could see his good arm reaching through the bars.

    “Why? It’s freezing.”

    “I know – I know, but please, I need something that will hide my hands.”

    Feren – who was in one of the cells opposite Thranduil’s – took off his coat and shoved it through the bars. There was nearly three metres of distance between his and Glorfindel’s outstretched arms. He swung the coat, letting it gain momentum, and then threw it towards Glorfindel’s cell where it landed in a heap only a foot away. Glorfindel grabbed it and it disappeared from Thranduil’s line of vision.

    There seemed to be no other prisoners in the cell block with them. Thranduil did not even recognise these dungeons, in fact, and wondered if they were only recently developed. The bars weren’t quite as rusted as he remembered and the walls weren’t nearly as dirty. It still smelled foul, however.

    Galion returned half an hour later. Thranduil only glimpsed him before his shackles were removed and he was tossed unceremoniously back into his cell. The Captain of the Guard turned around at once to Amroth’s cell and he was taken away in the same manner as Galion.

    “What are they doing?” said Tauriel, sounding very scared now.

    No one answered her. They couldn’t, for saying it aloud was admitting it before they were ready. They had all done this before; waited, agonisingly, for their turn to be reminded of their crimes, in the eyes of the law. It was an intimidation tactic Thranduil was very familiar with, and while it had never worked on him before, he was worried this would be the time he would break.

    He heard Galion groan faintly at the front and Elrond ask him if he was all right.

    Amroth put up one hell of a fight when they brought him back. Thranduil saw the swelling around his cheekbone and his bloody nose, dripping red on his white shirt. And, just before he was succumbed to his cell, Thranduil caught sight of a shiny red letter _P_ branded into his flesh on the side of his neck. Thranduil fell back from the door, his heart shrinking in his chest. He raised his hand up to his own neck, thinking not of himself, but of Tauriel and the others, branded pirates because they did nothing but follow and trust him.

    “Hey, we match,” he heard Amroth joke to Galion across the cells.

    “Fuck you,” said Galion.

    The soldiers moved to Tauriel’s cell then, but the Captain changed his mind and opened Glorfindel’s next to her. “We’ll leave the girl until last.”

    Glorfindel did not presume to struggle as much as Amroth had. Thranduil saw him pull the sleeves of Feren’s enormous coat down just as a soldier clapped him in irons. He was going to a great deal of effort to protect his prosthetic arm. Thranduil wondered if it had more uses than just being a replacement for a missing limb. He had seen Rúmil fiddling with it not a week ago.

    Tauriel had stopped crying now. They all remained quiet, waiting their turn to be taken away and, according to Galion and Amroth, questioned, as well as throttled.

    “In a fancy parlour, too. I hope the blood never comes out of the rug,” Amroth said.

    “What did they ask you?” Thranduil inquired.

    “They’re looking for Lady Galadriel.”

    “Galadriel? Why?” said Elrond.

    “Beats us,” said Galion. “But I didn’t tell them anything. Did you, Amroth?”

    “No,” said Amroth indignantly. “I can take a beating – they won’t get anything out of me.”

    Glorfindel returned, his arm still attached and an aggressive _P_ stamped into his neck. Elrond was next, and then Feren, who gave the soldiers such a hard time that they broke his arm in order to restrain him. Thranduil heard the crack of bone and winced.

    “That guy was huge,” he grunted when he returned. His brand looked particularly nasty. He had evidently moved when they burned him and the _P_ had been imprinted twice as a consequence. The left side of his neck was red and raw, and they had all but removed the tattoo of a mermaid that had been there. He looked livid. “He had about a foot on me.”

    That was certainly saying something.

    At last it was Tauriel’s turn. Quivering from head-to-foot, she complied to the shackles and walked peacefully out of the cell block. Thranduil watched her go, hating himself for getting her into this situation. He should not have allowed her to join his crew. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.

    She was gone for the shortest amount of time, but Thranduil spent every minute pacing his cell, wringing his hands and trying, sometimes in vain, not to cry. There was no use in crying, he knew that, but he wasn’t overly confident in Tauriel to withstand punishment. She was so fragile…

    But when she at last did return, her expression was set and her eyes dry, and it was somehow harder for Thranduil to see that way than if she had been distraught or in tears.

    The soldiers approached his cell then, their faces mean and grinning. Thranduil didn’t waste his energy with a fight. He offered up his wrists for irons and went with the soldiers to the door. He spared Tauriel a glance, still worried for her, but she was sitting in the middle of her cell, looking perfectly calm and unhurt, which was a relief, and yet wasn’t.

    He was led out of the dungeons and up the stone steps. Thranduil couldn’t immediately tell what part of the palace they were being kept in, as it wasn’t where the usual dungeons were, but as they walked the long corridors, he realised they were on the first floor, heading towards the private family rooms.

    He was taken to a parlour, which was a bright, comfortable room with blue upholstery on the chairs and sofas (or azure, as Nemireth might have called it. Everything in the palace was azure, reminding Thranduil of the sea, but in a way that drowned him rather than placated him). His mother was there, standing by the window. She did not meet Thranduil’s gaze as he entered so he looked instead to the others in the room; the giant of a man Feren had described, standing at almost seven feet tall and leaning quite casually against wall near the fire. Beside him was another man, moustached and narrow-eyed, holding a long metal bar with a _P_ shaped at the end. He smiled at Thranduil unkindly.

    To the desk on the left, facing the fire, the King was sat, his fingers steepled and his expression, while solemn, was alive with quiet victory. He was a good-looking man, but not in the same respect as his wife or son. His eyes were heavy-lidded and dull, shadowed by thick eyebrows that Thranduil had inherited. His hair was dark and tied back formally to accentuate his sharp jaw and long, slightly aquiline nose. He gave the perfect impression of royalty, despite being the son of a Governor of a harbour that no longer existed. Thranduil had always regarded this face with much apprehension. He had never been on good terms with his father; Oropher had seldom found time for his only son, preferring parties and scheming money out of the poor. Thranduil’s betrayal and piracy, however, had brought their lack of communication to a whole new level.

    It was for this reason, perhaps, that when Thranduil was deposited into the chair in front of his father, he felt like an insolent little boy again, being brought to heed stern discipline. Oropher had the same expression he always did when Thranduil had misbehaved (which had been often enough to commit to memory the cold, fathomless eyes and pursed lips). But as a child, Thranduil had not been subjected to handcuffs or cells, or watching his crewmembers be beaten and branded.

    For an excruciating minute, Oropher did not speak, but simply stared at Thranduil, like he was seeing him for the first time. Outside, the rain hammered against the window, as if trying to match the pace of Thranduil’s heart. He swallowed forcefully, attempting to compose himself, but he couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

    “I must admit, I find it difficult to believe it is actually you sitting there. Until recently, I was convinced you had sent yourself to your death at sea. But it seems my hopes were mistakenly placed.”

    Thranduil said nothing to this. He tried to catch his mother’s eye, but Nemireth stared pointedly at the floor, knowing better than to give herself away even in the slightest. Thranduil didn’t blame her, but he was desperate for at least a hint of reassurance from her – reassurance that she had not been brought to justice herself. Seeing her so resigned made him nervous.

    “Your friends have been… less than helpful,” Oropher continued, unfazed by Thranduil’s silence. “They are very loyal to you. It is touching.”

    Thranduil still did not speak. He did not trust himself to say anything worthy of the loathing he felt for the man in front of him. That, and he was attempting to make sense of the situation he was in. Behind him, the two men were relaxed and unconcerned, which gave Thranduil the impression he was not going to be given the same treatment as the others. This bothered him; he had been expecting one hell of a trial, but it appeared to him that Oropher only wanted to talk. This, however, did not mean his fate would be any easier to bear.

    “I wish to offer you a proposal. If you accept, I will let your friends go. If not, they will be brought back here each day and returned to you with a little less of themselves than they had before.”

    Thranduil gritted his teeth, willing himself not to lash out. His hatred was blinding – white hot in his stomach. He wanted to snatch the letter-opener that lay on the desk and drive it through Oropher’s eye socket. But Nemireth surely would not appreciate this, and Thranduil didn’t like his chances unarmed against the men behind him.

    He dared another glance at his mother. Ever-so discreetly, he saw her shake her head. This encouraged his refusal to speak, though under different circumstances he might have been tempted to accept whatever his father was about to offer if it truly meant getting his men out alive.

    Oropher sighed – a bit like a disappointed father might sigh if his son was being nothing more than disobedient. It was a sigh Thranduil had heard many times before. However, Oropher did not seem overly troubled. Instead of pitching his so-called proposal, he shifted aside a stack of books on his desk to retrieve an ornately carved box from the bottom of the pile.

    “You arrived at a rather convenient time – for us both. I just had this brought in from the jewellers and I think it may interest you.”

    In his peripheral vision, Thranduil saw his mother stiffen, raising her head to look at the box, her eyes wide with anticipation. Thranduil, too, looked at it, observing the gentle carvings in the wood and the gold lock. Oropher clicked it open with eager hands, as though it was a delicacy he couldn’t wait to enjoy. As he lifted the lid, he revealed a crown inside – one that Thranduil had never seen before. He knew all the stories behind the royal jewels, but not this one.

    “I’d grown rather tired of my old crown. Fashion changes, you know. I like to maintain a good impression.”

    As he spoke, Oropher removed the crown gently from the box. It shone in magnificent gold, so pure and unblemished that Thranduil was temporarily blinded by the glare coming off it. But, when his eyes adjusted and he saw it clearly, he noticed a curious gem in its centre. Perfectly oval and as large as a chicken’s egg, it sparkled in the shadow of Oropher’s hand, emitting its own, starry glow.

    Thranduil felt his stomach leave him. He felt his entire consciousness leave him. Even his mother, who had been poised and unaffected by the scene before her, looked dead with shock.

    “I am not as foolish as you might think, Thranduil,” Oropher was saying as he set the crown atop the now closed box and admired it fondly. “I know you are searching for the gems; I know you know where they are.” He leaned forward, his fingers interlocked over the table. “You will not succeed. You will never sit upon this throne.”

    Thranduil was still too stunned to do anything but stare at the crown. The gem unmistakably belonged to those he was looking for. After all this time, his father had kept one.

    “You are decidedly tedious for a son of mine. The effort you have undergone to secure these gems is dramatic, to say the least. You could have saved yourself years of fruitless voyaging by just killing me. I can’t say I am sorry you didn’t, but it’s disappointing to see my own blood stoop to such idiocy.”

    Thranduil turned to look at his mother clearly now. She no longer looked upset by the revealing of the gem, having collected her bearings expertly, but when Thranduil met her eyes, he saw the despair he had always dreaded. He saw that he had failed her.

    “Take him away.”

   

    The situation had changed far more drastically than Thranduil could ever have anticipated. What was he to do now that his father had a white gem? Even if he brought the entire chest back from the dragon, he would only be handing them straight to the King through his mother. Oropher was in complete control now and he knew it.

    And what was Nemireth’s game by telling Thranduil not to accept the proposal, whatever it was? What did it matter if it meant the rest of his crew could go free? She couldn’t possibly expect him to stand by and watch them be chopped up.

    He was counting on her to have a plan, and one that involved them leaving the palace with all of their limbs intact. Thranduil’s priority was getting his crew out alive. Stuff the gems, he thought savagely. I’m not sacrificing my men. Not anymore.

    “Back so soon, Captain!” said Feren when Thranduil returned to the dungeons. “Did you miss us that much?”

    Feren had a habit of trying to make light of a bad situation. It only occasionally helped, and now was not one of those occasions. Thranduil was too numbed by burning, crippling ruin to take any pleasure in it.

    “Hey, mate, can we get some food? Maybe a round of drinks? We’re a little – ow!”

    There was a loud _bang_ and the dungeon door closed on the cells. Evidently interrogations were over for the day, much to Thranduil’s relief. It meant he had a little more time to think of a way to escape.

    “What happened, Captain?” Glorfindel asked.

    Thranduil didn’t answer. He couldn’t bring himself to tell them that seven years of searching for the gems had been for nothing.

 

    Night fell. Thranduil dreamed when his mind wandered away far enough to sleep. He dreamed of Bard with the sun at his back and the wind in his hair, tousling the few strands that always fell out of the knot at the base of his neck. In the dream, he was talking, but Thranduil couldn’t hear what he was saying. He turned, facing the orange sunset, flashing that cocky grin of his. Thranduil moved forward, hoping to thread their hands together, but before he could get close enough, the dream faltered and he was staring once again at the matted, dirty straw in the gloom of the dungeon.

    It had stopped raining. He could hear voices squawking around him and footsteps thundering overheard outside. Getting up, he stretched and went over to the bars to check on the others.

    Feren was leaning against wall of his cell, his broken armed propped on his lap as he talked lazily to Tauriel and Glorfindel across from him. Galion, Amroth and Elrond appeared to have created a throwing game with a ball made of straw. They tossed to one another until Thranduil heard the inevitable moan that meant someone had thrown it too far for any of them to reach.

    “... surrounded by women,” Feren was saying. “They were all gorgeous – even I could see that – but I’m trying to express to the Madame that I wanted a man. I’m gesturing and pointing until, finally, her face lights up and she seems to understand. So she goes away for a while and I’m waiting, being served drinks by the girls still squabbling over my coin purse, and then the Madame comes back with this poor – ha ha – this poor sod in a frock and a full face of rouge, looking so damned embarrassed I thought he was going to start crying.”

    “So what did you do?” Tauriel asked.

    “Well I’d gotten what I asked for, hadn’t I? He thankfully knew a bit more of the common tongue and when I explained the situation he was so relieved that he stripped at once. Freakin’ Southerners, I’m telling you.”

    The dungeon echoed with the peal of Tauriel’s laughter. Even Glorfindel, who had heard the story before, was laughing himself into hysterics. Thranduil rolled his eyes.

    “Have you told the Queen that one yet?” he teased.

    Feren grinned. “Do you think she’d like it?”

   “Probably.”

    “Thranduil, you’re awake!” came Glorfindel’s voice. “How’s our escape plan coming?”

    “Badly. What time is it?”

    “Dawn. The guards just rotated.”

    Thranduil rubbed his face with his hands, feeling groggy. He couldn’t think for hunger and thirst. Everything just felt hopeless.

    “Hey, Captain, I think it’s a good time to tell you that I can get us out of here,” Glorfindel added.

    Thranduil leaned against the bars of his cell, shaking his head. Was Glorfindel delirious from confinement already? How typical.

    “Please, enlighten me.”

    “Rúmil has been improving my hand. Look at this.” Glorfindel stuck his prosthetic arm through the bars so that Thranduil’s could see from the cell next door. The sharp, menacing iron fingers glinted in the faint sunlight drifting through the high windows. Glorfindel stuck his other hand through and fiddled with a clasp on the prosthesis. With a shrill _twang_ , a thin, deadly knife, much like a skewer, erupted from the palm.

    “Wait, that’s not it.”

    Glorfindel flicked the clasp again and the knife shot back into the arm. Amazed, Thranduil watched more closely as Glorfindel felt for a different latch. He dug a nail underneath it and a small compartment in his wrist shifted open, where from he retrieved three lock-picks.

    “Here,” he said, and he threw one to Thranduil, who bent down to take it from the ground where it landed.

    “This is ingenious. Why did you not say anything earlier?”

    “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t taken off me first. That’s why I went to so much trouble to hide that I have a fake hand,” Glorfindel explained.

    “What else have you got in there?” asked Feren, looking impressed

    “Nothing. It’s still a work in progress. The knife takes up a lot of room because it has to retract into this bit here.” Glorfindel pointed to one of the thick metal rods that moulded around his actual limb. “But I’m hoping Rúmil can adjust the fingers so I can shoot a pistol.”

    “To think that lad chose to be a pirate. He could make a serious business selling gadgets like that,” said Elrond.

    “Don’t give him any ideas,” Glorfindel warned.

    “Well, getting out of these cells is one thing,” said Thranduil tucking the lock-pick into his belt, “but getting out of the palace is entirely another. And even if we manage it, there is no guarantee the ship will be waiting for us.”

    “Come off it,” said Amroth from the front. “They wouldn’t leave without us!”

    “I told Meludir to sail if we were caught,” Thranduil said.

    Amroth snorted. “And I’m sure they’ll get _very far_ with Bard on board. That kid isn’t going anywhere without you.”

    There was a collective snigger from all the pirates, which Thranduil ignored. They might find it amusing, but he worried that Bard would come back for them. While Thranduil’s faith in him was absolute, he didn’t need more of his crew to wind up in these cells.

    “We still cannot afford to rely on Bard,” he said tartly. “This isn’t the first time we’ve been locked up and I daresay it won’t be the last.”

    “But the King knows us,” said Galion, his voice echoing down to Thranduil. “There’s no getting out of here undetected.”

    “We can hold our own in a fight,” said Feren.

    “But we have no weapons,” said Tauriel.

    “They’ll be in the armoury,” said Amroth.

    “That’s on the other side of the castle,” said Glorfindel.

    “We could send one person to get them while we hold off the guards?” suggested Galion.

    “Hold them off with what? Straw balls?” Elrond chided.

    “Well someone has to come up with an idea!”

    “Everyone, shut up,” said Thranduil.

    He could hear voices coming from behind the door, angry and slightly raised, as if purposely making themselves aware of their presence to Thranduil and the crew.

    “You want them to starve before they say anything?” said a honeyed, female voice.

    “We were told the prisoners weren’t getting food,” replied the taut guard.

    “That was _yesterday,_ ” said the other person impatiently. “Orders are different today.”

    “Fine, but I’m taking this up with the Captain.”

    “Who do you think sent me? Let me pass.”

    The door was unbolted and pushed open roughly. A girl entered, carrying a large tray. Keen to finally be getting some food, Thranduil did not immediately recognise her, but it was, without a doubt, Mithrellas, dressed perfectly as a maid in white and soft green. She hurried down the line of cells to where Thranduil was.

    “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

    “Helping you escape, of course,” Mithrellas retorted, passing him bread and water from her tray. “But our position is not good. You have to wait a bit longer.”

    “Where are the children?”

    “On their way to Imladris.”

    “And Bard?”

    “He’s fine. Worried sick. But listen to me, Captain, we don’t know what the King wants from you, but it must be important if he’s keeping you alive. Whatever happens, you cannot accept his offer.”

    “What does he ask of me?” Thranduil said.

    “The Queen is not sure, but he might be trying to lure you into a trap –”

    “Hurry up in there!”

    Gasping, Mithrellas hurried to everyone else, giving them their rations. Thranduil wanted to know more – what was Bard doing? Was Legolas okay? Where was the ship? – but before he could call her back Mithrellas had whisked out of the dungeon, the door slamming behind her.

     “Well that’s the most promising thing I’ve seen yet,” said Feren, breaking the thudding silence that followed.

    “The Queen is probably behind this,” said Glorfindel sagely. “She’s gotten Thranduil out before.”

    “This time is different. Her situation is far more delicate,” Thranduil said.

    “She’s resourceful all the same, and the rest of the crew is determined,” said Galion.

    “I wonder what we’re supposed to be waiting for,” said Amroth. “Surely they could just bust us out and we can book it.”

    “Not if it makes it looks like the Queen was behind it. She has to protect her own reputation first,” Thranduil explained.

    “This is far too complicated. Life was simpler when the weapons were kept next to the dungeons and there was more of us to fight our way out,” said Glorfindel.

    “Since when has life ever been simple for us?” Feren berated with a smirk.

    Thranduil sighed and slid back down the wall of his cell. He stuffed the bread into his mouth and drained the goblet of water in one. It was hardly enough to sate him. In fact it only made him hungrier.

    He was tired now; the pressure of his purpose was weighing on him. So many years had passed, and for what? He had achieved nothing. What worth was he to the Queen when he couldn’t deliver on his promises? When he couldn’t bring himself to return and take his place as King when her time was over? He had failed her from the word ‘go,’ and yet pursued her quest all the same.

    Everyone knew pirates were nothing but liars, and that truth rang deeper in Thranduil than perhaps even he knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sidenote: I'm not going to bring sexual harassment or abuse into this fic. I can't stand to deliver it for realism or anything else, especially in relation to women. So, in case anyone was wondering, nothing of the sort happened to Tauriel, even though it kind of implies it. You'll find out later why she wasn't hurt or branded. Thanks again!


	22. Tea for Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact I forgot to mention in the previous chapter: flesh brands were typically imprinted on a person's forehead. I wanted it to be historically accurate but I also didn't want to spoil the aesthetic of the story, so I went for the neck instead. 
> 
> Also I made a playlist for the story! [ Go fuel my ego and check it out.](http://8tracks.com/tristanackerly/the-white-gems-of-lasgalen)
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is sorry and so am I.

They were left in their cells for two more days. Thranduil paced and muttered, thinking, and yet not thinking, his heart jittery. It grew unseasonably cold, making it difficult to sleep at night. Frost glazed the walls in the morning and, while it did not snow in the capital, it rained and flooded, causing sheets of water to pour through the windows.

    It was as if the King had forgotten them. Unfed, ignored, the pirates rotted to the stone floors and walls, scarcely talking because it was too much for them to even whisper. Several times they deliberated escaping – just making a run for it – but it was asking for a miracle not to be recaptured in the process. Even with Glorfindel’s lock-picks and the constant guard rotations, they had no hope of getting out of there without being seen.

    It was dawn, on the fourth day. Thranduil was catching soft sunlight on his pendant, watching the colours of the white gem sparkle in the semi-darkness. It brought him comfort, and made him think of Bard and Legolas. Sometimes he thought he could see their faces in the crystal colours on the wall, but knew it was just his own imagination playing tricks on him.

    A yowl sounded through the dungeon, penetrating and shocking in the quiet. Blinking out of his reverie, Thranduil looked up to see the dusty werecat from his mother’s parlour crouched in the window of his cell, watching him with its bright, yellow eyes. Its bushy tail swept the side of the wall testily. Thranduil got up and stood beneath it on his tip-toes, extending his hand as high as it would go. The cat’s tail brushed his fingers before it stood up and pushed something small through the window and into the cell.

    A tiny scroll landed on the floor and Thranduil hastened to retrieve it. When he stood up again, the werecat was gone.

    He opened the scroll, his hands trembling so violently he tore it in half.

    _Be ready._

    It wasn’t his mother’s handwriting, but Bard’s. He would recognise it anywhere: sloped, messy, the letters disjointed and sharp. Bard wasn’t in the habit of reading or writing. And, being left-handed, he had to raise his hand off the parchment to avoid smudging the ink. Thranduil crumpled the note to his chest, feeling a hard mixture of amnesty and despair. Four days was hardly a trying time to be apart, but it somehow felt like an entire lifetime had passed between them. Thranduil couldn’t even remember the last time they had kissed.

    Probably in bed in the north tower, where they had foolishly believed they'd been safe.

    _Be ready._

    Ready for what? Thranduil didn’t like to think that Bard – and the rest of the crew – where trying to conduct a rescue, but he had accepted its inevitability. Thranduil was no longer ashamed to admit he needed rescuing. They weren’t going to get out on their own.

   

    Nothing happened for several more hours, despite the note suggesting otherwise. Thranduil and the others discussed it at length, finally allowing themselves a brief moment of hope, but it wasn’t until midday when the door to the dungeon opened for the first time since Mithrellas had found them.

    Disappointingly, the Guard Captain approached Thranduil’s cell. He was shackled and half dragged up the stairs, too weak to be proud, too tired to be tall.

    The parlour was bathed so bright in the sun that Thranduil was momentarily blinded when he was marched inside, so accustomed now to the dark that he felt like a distressed animal being shown the outside world. Dumping him into the chair opposite the King, the Guard Captain joined his fellow soldiers by the fire, standing as still as statues, their muskets loaded.

    Nemireth was not there this time and Thranduil privately mourned her absence. He clung to the strength she provided him. He needed her.

    He peered up at his father, attempting to compose himself in his poor consciousness. He felt sluggish and wrong, like he was watching himself from a different plain of existence. He felt small.

    “Tea?” Oropher asked, stirring sugar into a porcelain cup. Beside him, a teapot was steaming. Thranduil recognised it – and the cups – from the fancy tea parties his mother enjoyed hosting for her friends. As a child, Thranduil had never been allowed to attend, but he had sometimes snuck in to hide behind the curtains, listening to the beautiful women gossip and laugh, though it always sounded to him like a squabble of happy geese, sipping tea and eating sugary cakes in their wide skirts and bodices. Like pretty cakes eating cakes, he had thought.

    He did not accept the tea, but was given a cup of his own regardless. Thranduil stared down at the brown, murky leaves drifting to the bottom, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth with thirst. The cup was warm in his cold hands and he drank it scalding, barely tasting it.

    “Have you thought about my offer at all?” Oropher prompted then, in a tone that suggested they had spoken only the previous day.

    Thranduil knew he couldn’t hold his tongue this time. He had to find out what the King wanted.

    “You have not asked anything of me,” he said through clenched teeth.

    Oropher laughed. “You’re quite right. Must have slipped my mind.” He paused, sipping his tea pensively. Thranduil waited, feeling frantic. The chains were too cold around his wrists and the fire too warm on his back.

    “You see, I was going to have you killed. Almost at once. Such a terrible business, having a pirate in the family; it doesn’t look good in the papers, you understand.” Oropher spoke very matter-of-factly; as if he were discussing the weather or the latest political scandal. “But then I thought; what if I used it to my advantage? I have no other heir, as my wife – useless as she is – cannot bear any more children. It is a real shame, I must admit, that our miracle son turned out to be a traitorous little bilge rat. But, there is always room for opportunity, as they say.”

    Thranduil finished his tea and set the cup on the desk, feeling no better for it.

    “You’re a pirate, Thranduil, whether you take to the term or not - you’ve certainly made a name for yourself, and by some higher power news of your heritage has not travelled far enough to draw attention to me - however, I have the power to reinstate your old title; make you the Prince you were born to be. But, I cannot do this without a little effort on your part. Call it a trade, if you will. I need the gems back, and you know how to get them.”

    “And why would I give them to you?” Thranduil countered.

    “Ah, yes, I thought we might hit that little snag. I am not an unfair man. Return the gems to me, and I will not only reinstate you as my heir, but I will stop selling slaves. You ultimately achieve what you set out to do.”

    “You already have one of them,” Thranduil said, indicating the box on the desk with a clinking wave of his hand. “What interest have you in the rest?”

    Oropher smiled thinly. “I have simply… realised my mistake.”

    “Why not get them yourself?”

    Oropher sighed. “Believe me, I’ve tried, but Thorin Oakenshield is having difficulty retrieving them from his… vault, as I’m sure you can imagine. With his permission, I can have an army take care of it, but he’s being very stubborn on that front – he is not swayed by the idea of an alliance.” He smiled serenely, draining his tea. “But you – maybe Oakenshield will listen to you! I do not mean to pressure the poor man, but if he thinks you’re in on it then perhaps a bargain can be struck. He’s not like his father. I daresay you know how to speak his language.”

    Thranduil relented, deciding to play this ludicrous game. He leaned back in the chair and rested his chained hands in his lap.

    “All right,” he said, brushing a bit of dirt off his trousers absently. “Let’s say I work for you. What do I get out of it?”

    “I have already explained; the slaves are freed, and you are Prince again.”

    Thranduil was quietly mitigated by this statement. Oropher’s ignorance towards the truth of Thranduil’s situation worked in the Queen’s favour. It meant she had not been discovered in the centre of the plot.

    “That’s pretty poor reimbursement considering I would be facing a dragon for you,” Thranduil said coolly.

    “You will have every soldier available to you. I can have an armada set sail within the week.”

    Thranduil nearly laughed at this, but bit his tongue to restrain it. Oropher looked hopeful, which was amusing. Thranduil wondered if his mind was failing with old age.

    “So I bring back the gems, return them to you… and then what? You remain King?”

    “Naturally. And you are free to take the throne when it is time for me to step down, as you were always meant to.”

    “And what is to stop you from going back on these promises?” Thranduil said, gesturing as if said promises hovered in the air in front of him. “God knows how long you sold slaves for before I found out about it. A clever man like you can surely start again without my knowing. I hear it’s very profitable, as few people are actually sick enough to do it.”

    Oropher’s face fell momentarily. “You have my word.”

    This time, Thranduil laughed outright, unable to keep up the façade. “There, you see, the thing about being a pirate is you come to learn that someone’s word doesn’t quite have the same face-value as… say… other things.”

    “What else do you want, then? Gold? Titles? Islands? You can have anything you want, Thranduil. Just come home.”

    This made Thranduil break all pretext for negotiation, false or otherwise. Unable to bear it any longer, he stood up. Chair scraping, knocked back onto the floor, he seized the letter opener on the desk and plunged it towards his father, attempting to get any part of him he could reach. But Oropher was too quick. His hands flew up to meet Thranduil’s arm and, unable to hold his own in chains, he was thrown back from the desk, colliding with the fallen chair.

    At once, the Guard Captain seized him by the hair and dragged him across the room, tossing him carelessly against the wall and cracking his head on a side table. Thranduil laughed and spat at the soldier’s feet.

    He paid for that. The Captain’s boot flew into his empty, feverish stomach and Thranduil slid sideways, retching and winded, his vision blurring with pain. But he heard Oropher’s footsteps approaching and scrambled to his feet, breathing hard and clutching his ribs, but still managing to grin like an insolent little boy.

    “You can’t kill me,” he panted. “You need me.”

     To the left of the Thranduil, the Captain cracked his knuckles menacingly. Thranduil winked at him.

    “Come on. Have another go,” he said.

    But Oropher held up a hand to detain his Captain, glaring at Thranduil. With his son doubled-over against the wall, they were at each other’s eye level. But however old or doddering Oropher may have appeared to Thranduil, he was still capable of inflicting a great deal of damage to the weak and unarmed.

    “If you won’t agree to my terms, I would like you to instead tell me where the witch Galadriel is,” he said, his tone frosty and indifferent now.

    “I’m not telling you anything,” Thranduil jeered.

    “I do not make idle threats,” Oropher warned. “Your friends will die if you do not give her up.”

    “Let them die. My crew is disposable.”

    Oropher raised an eyebrow at this. “Is that so? For men so disposable to you, they are _very_ loyal.”

    He nodded to the Guard Captain and the man turned away from Thranduil, heading to a door by the fireplace that led to a library. He unlocked and opened it, exchanging a few words with someone inside that Thranduil couldn’t quite decipher.

    He heard scuffling and swearing and the clink of chains. He craned his neck to see who was there, but the door was too far from his line of sight.

    “We caught this one in the armoury,” Oropher was saying as the struggling in the other room continued, fists and feet thudding “He had _this_ on him. I can’t imagine you’d give a thing so important to someone so… _disposable._ ”

    From the pocket of his tunic Oropher withdrew a wrought iron key slung on a snapped leather band. The key Thranduil had given to Bard.

    To Thranduil’s utter horror, Bard was shoved into the room through the door. He staggered, scowling at the man behind him who had delivered the push. He looked bad; his face was scratched, left eye swollen and mouth bleeding. He had his wrists in shackles and there, on his neck, was an angry red _P_ branded into the flesh. He caught sight of Thranduil, smiled, and very equably said;

    “Hey.”

    Thranduil closed his eyes, shutting out the noise, though his heart was beating out a tirade of fear and fury, making him feel claustrophobic and trapped.

    “He claims to be just a common thief, but he’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

    Thranduil straightened up, gritting his teeth against the pain and forcing himself to remain conscious, though his head spun sickeningly. “Well, you have branded him as such.”

    Oropher glanced at Bard. He was being kept in check by a burly soldier and the shifty-looking brander from the other day, who was holding the branding rod. The _P_ on its end was still glowing faintly orange.

    “You don’t recognise him? So I can kill him?”

    Thranduil’s heart stilled. He felt sick; properly, physically sick now. His vision blurred and failed him as he fought to stay standing.

    “Wait,” he said, just as the Guard Captain had begun to draw his sword. “I’ll tell you.”

    “Thranduil, don’t,” Bard warned, his cocky manner suddenly abandoned.

    “What do you want with Galadriel anyway?” Thranduil shot at Oropher quickly.

    “That’s hardly of any concern to you.”

    “I'll not tell you if you don’t explain,” Thranduil insisted.

    “Captain.”

    The Guard Captain drew his sword fully now and took a step towards Bard. Thranduil moved convulsively forward, a fresh wave of nausea overcoming him, his fist clenching around the letter opener in his hand, digging into his skin. Oropher smiled and signalled the Captain to back down once again.

    “Lothlorien,” Thranduil muttered. “West. In a cabin by the bay.”

    Bard swore savagely. “We told you not to say anything!”

    The soldier holding him growled and struck him in the back of the knee with a foot, sending Bard to the ground with a gasp. Thranduil felt breathless with self-hatred. He was starting to hyperventilate. Tunnel vision. Sweat down his back. Cold. Hot. Dulled, distant voices. Then, an ache in his head and he was on the floor again, ears ringing.

    The door to the parlour flew open, bringing Thranduil back in a paroxysmal wave of terror. He got to his feet again, watching as people swarmed into the room. His people. Pirates, brandishing swords and pistols, converging on the King and soldiers. The smell of gunpowder filled the room as shots echoed through the walls, splintering wood and plaster and shattering the glass windows and porcelain tea set. Half delirious, Thranduil vaguely saw a flash of red as Nimrodel pelted passed him, launching herself on a soldier with her sword. More men entered the room from the other door, carrying muskets and swords, ready to stand against the pirates. And then Bard was there, in front of Thranduil. He could feel his warm hands which, dry and coarse with blood though they were, were as soft as sea foam.

    “You won’t make it out of here alive,” Oropher said, wiping blood from his mouth as the soldiers moved forward to protect him.

    The pirates had fallen back to one side of the room, their eyes bloodthirsty and their swords sharp. Several soldiers lay motionless on the floor, oozing blood into the rugs.

    “It’s a shame we can’t say the same for you,” retorted Glorfindel.

    Bard turned his back to the advancing groups, fidgeting with the shackles around his wrists. Thranduil saw he had a lock-pick and was trying to free himself.

    “Let me,” he managed.

    He took the pick from Bard and started to dig around in the locks, clicking them open before proceeding to his own. The chains fell with a clatter to the floor and Oropher stirred, glaring at them, his expression beyond fury; beyond loathing.

    “You will never be King!” he shouted at Thranduil.

    Bard spun around, his arms automatically reaching back to shield Thranduil. But over his shoulder, Thranduil saw that Oropher still had the key. They couldn’t leave without the key.

    He lunged forward, shoving Bard out of the way. But his movements were too slow; too heavy. As soon as he made for the King, Bard was already pulling him back, dragging him to the exit where the other pirates were already fleeing. Thranduil cried out, reaching for his father uselessly, seeing the key dangling limply from his fingers.

    Several shots were fired from the soldiers, their eyes level to their muskets. Thranduil ducked, but Bard didn’t.

    He could almost feel the bullet go through his own body. Bard stumbled, yelling, and Thranduil thought he would be suspended in that moment forever.

    “Move,” Bard grunted, clutching his shoulder.

    Thranduil moved. He ran. Though the halls, thundering footsteps, screaming servants. He could hear fighting behind him; the rest of the pirates firing their pistols as they ran, pursued by soldiers, who fell one by one to the floor.

 

    Down the marble stairs, slipping, colliding with one another, gripping the bannister for support. Meludir riding it down and laughing, his pistols drawn, shooting a soldier who came running out of a room to the side of the foyer. Glorfindel brandishing the knife in his prosthetic arm, driving into a soldier and ripping him open. Tauriel streaking after the Guard Captain with a furious vengeance, a blur of red hair and silver daggers.

 

    An endless foyer. A chandelier falling and shattering on the floor, barely missing Elrond. Plumes of smoke from muskets and the clattering swords of dying soldiers. Thranduil was burying his own sword into a man's chest, not even aware of how he had got it.

 

    Bard was on the King, sprawled on the ground as they scuffled over the key like quarrelling children, both smearing blood on each other from their wounds. Then Tauriel was there and her boot made contact with the King’s head and Bard snatched the key free.

 

    Fighting on the stairs, the bannisters splintered and the marble cracked in several places.

 

    Meludir, Nimrodel, Galion and Orophin were making for the door, followed closely by several others. The soldiers were running after them, screaming to their comrades for help.

   

    Thranduil glanced back to the stairs, dropping a soldier by the length of his sword. Lethuin was bringing up the rear, slow on his peg leg. He slipped on the marble, falling on his back. Feren skidded to a halt only a metre ahead and went back to help. He used both hands even though one was broken. Lethuin was on his feet again, rubbing his back, and Feren was on the floor with a bullet in his head. 

 

    Lethuin’s fingers clutched at his shirt, on his knees, his scream soundless. He was pried away by Amroth. Thranduil was running numbly to the stairs where they were, but someone grabbed his wrist to lead him to the door instead. Feren’s body was left behind, the blood from his head pooling on the marble floor.

 

    Outside. The trees in sight. Thranduil could see the forest path, but didn’t want to go to it. He wanted to go back – back to Feren, who needed to be helped to his feet. They could not leave him there without aid.

 

    The soldiers fell behind, unable to reload their muskets nor make the distance to run their swords into the pirates. If they did, they were struck down at once, littering the path until the remaining three gave up.

 

    Carriages on the path. Four of them, waiting. Horses pawing the ground nervously, tossing their heads. Thranduil climbed into one after Bard, Nimrodel and Mithrellas. It was cramped and hot. The Queen was there, dressed in pink, her hair high and white and adorned with ornamental birds. Thranduil didn’t hear the words she spoke before she disappeared and the carriage started to move.

 

    He fell back against the seat, groaning. Mind hazy,  stomach queasy. The carriage smelled of treated leather and perfume. It trundled down the dirt path through the woods, the undergrowth and low branches snagging at the roof. He could hear Bard breathing deeply beside him and could also smell the sharp, wet red staining his clothes. He had lost a lot of blood. It oozed through the fingers trying to put pressure on the wound on his back. The bullet had not gone all the way through.

    Nimrodel moved in the carriage to Bard’s side to apply the pressure he needed. Thranduil reached across the seat to hold his hand, but he didn’t make the distance between them before falling unconscious.


	23. Inflictions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter is long as heck. But I had nowhere to cut it off if I wanted to include everything that I did. I really hope it doesn't drag or bore. There was a lot to address in the aftermath of the escape, and I couldn't even write everything I wanted to, so I'm going to wrap up this chapter a bit more in the next one. I hope you enjoy it all the same. Thanks so much for reading!

Later, when he woke, Thranduil didn’t remember his fevered dreams of running through dark hallways, the marble floors of the castle foyer crumbling beneath his bare feet, wearing his nightclothes from when he was a child, being chased by shadows and spiders with too many legs. His mother, flitting through the mirrors he passed, never truly at his side.

    There were some times when Thranduil didn’t dream at all; when it was nothing, but still just enough to frighten him, to make him want to die. He thought he could feel himself moving through the darkness, or was it the darkness that moved around him? Either way, it ached.

    The first thing he was aware of was that the rickety carriage had been replaced with the smooth, rocking motions of the sea beneath the hull. That, more than anything, brought him comfort. Brought him home and back to himself. The calm sea was everything; it was all-encompassing.

    He opened his eyes, head groggy and body sweltering in the bed in his cabin, sunlight streaming in through the windows, creating an aberrantly cheerful atmosphere.

    “About time you woke.”

    Thranduil sat up, rubbing his eyes, which felt as if someone had stuffed wool behind them – like he had been drunk and unsuccessfully tried to sleep it off. Elrond was there, making noise at a little table of bottles and bowls and rags that was usually kept in the infirmary. He brought an old rum bottle to eye-level, swirling the liquid inside before deeming it satisfactory and handing it to Thranduil.

    “What’s this?”

    “An elixir,” Elrond said, sitting on the bed. “You were poisoned.”

    Thranduil took a breath and swallowed a mouthful of the drink, preparing himself for the worst. To his surprise, it had a pleasantly tangy taste, but he struggled to keep it down all the same. He was starving and dry with thirst, and his stomach writhed with nausea.

    “Bard?”

    “Alive. But he’s barely slept the past few days.”

    “Few days? How long was I out?”

    “Three nights. Your fever only broke this morning. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it. Starved like that in our cells worsened the effect of whatever you were poisoned with.”

    Thranduil swore, thudding back against the headboard. He felt dreamlike and faded, as if he wasn’t even there anymore; just a ghost of a man still drifting aimlessly through the void in his fever dreams.

    “We arrive in Erebor in a week. We had a very lucky escape.”

    “Not all of us.”

    Thranduil clenched his teeth so as not to cry, though the grief only mounted, like a pressing furnace on his chest. At what point could he keep justifying the suffering his crew were made to endure by this quest? How many people had to die before it was enough? Why wasn’t this something he could do alone?

    “How is Lethuin?” he asked, his heart in his throat.

    Elrond grimaced. “He is… not good. Meludir has been keeping an eye on him, but he just stays in his bunk.”

    “I do not blame him.”

    “Nor I. It is a crime that we had to leave Feren behind. I only hope the Queen had his body retrieved. He will be given a proper burial that way.”

    “Pirates belong to the sea.”

    “True. But I have seen my fair share of men tossed to the waves and sometimes it is more forgiving to be buried, for the earth is kinder to us. It’s the Pirate Way to be given to the sea, but in my heart I know there is no peace down there. We are not so loved by any divine power to be offered it.”

    Thranduil raised a brow at Elrond. “What are you saying? That we throw our dead to the bottom of the sea to be closer to Hell?”

    “You’re a bleak man, Thranduil. I did not mean anything half as grim as that.”

    “I slept for three days.”

    “That’s hardly an excuse.”

    “Go to Hell.”

    “There’s a bucket here if you get sick. I don’t think the poison is entirely out of your system, so be prepared for the worst.” Elrond retrieved a bottle of water from the medical table and set it beside Thranduil’s bed, next to a letter opener. “I’ll get you some food.”

    “I’m not hungry.”

    “I know, but you need to eat.”

    He left and Thranduil nursed the water, feeling wretched. Poisoned – how could he have been so careless as to drink that tea? He looked down at his right hand and saw deep grooves in his palms, but no blood. It hurt when he closed his fingers around it.

    Bard burst into the cabin not long after Elrond left, his eyes wild with despair. He threw himself at the bedside, burying his face into Thranduil’s chest. He stroked Bard’s hair behind his ear, catching sight of bandages through his linen shirt. His right arm was hung in a sling and he was smattered with bruises and flesh wounds, his eye red and bloodshot and the _P_ on his neck raw and crusty, in the midst of healing.

    The sight of it made Thranduil sick to the stomach, but in a way that was completely unrelated to being poisoned. Bard’s life – and the others’ as well – were suddenly much harder because of their marks. They would not be able to get jobs when their task was done or even be served at taverns or shops if owners bore ill tidings towards pirates, which many did.

    Thranduil was clean, but Bard would be a pirate forever.

*

    “Put him on ration duty. Have him do inventory – anything!”

    Nimrodel tossed a lock of hair from her face, glaring at Bard. She was beaten up badly, just as many of the others were, yet this only made her more intimidating; all five-foot-three of her was enough to make Bard take a small, but noticeable step back.

    “There is nothing to do,” he repeated tartly. “If he wants to stay in his bunk, let him.”

    “But he needs a distraction, Bard,” Nimrodel said desperately, switching to a new tactic swiftly. “If we leave him alone, he might do something rash.”

    “Fine! Assign him to galley for all I care. Get off my case.”

    “You’re being an asshole, you know that?”

    Bard shot Nimrodel a toxic look. “Lethuin is not the only one who lost Feren.”

    “But it’s different for him!”

    “I know – I know it’s different, believe me, but I cannot bend over backwards to make the poor sod feel better. I have enough to do, Nim. Just put him in the galley and find someone else to bother.”

    Nimrodel stalked away, leaving Bard to return to the maps he had laid out on a barrel under the stairs by the cabin. Glorfindel sat with him, looking sullen. Ever since their flight from the palace, he had been missing his prosthetic arm. The knife was no longer able to retract and therefore posed a threat to the rest of the crew. Rúmil had been working on it with little success, but Bard knew that wasn’t the real reason Glorfindel was so miserable.

    Bard stared at the maps for several for minutes before admitting defeat and dropping his face in the hand that wasn’t supported in a sling, but he winced when he knocked his bruised eye with his thumb.

    He was tired, but sleep refused to come. On the rare occasions that it did, he dreamed of Feren coating the marble floor with blood, lifting his head up and smacking it back down until his skull was caved in and the sound of it cracking and squelching woke Bard in a fit of terror.

    He knew he wasn’t alone in this; the others, too, had trouble finding rest. Nimrodel, for one, spent so much time harassing the crew that it was a blessing to see her sitting down for longer than five minutes, and Meludir was so quiet it sometimes felt like he wasn’t there at all. Feren’s death had settled a heavy weight on them all, but on Galion, Glorfindel, Nimrodel and Lethuin more than anyone else. They had been the closest of friends – suffered the most hardship - and they had lost another one of their own.

    What Bard hated most was how much he saw Feren in everything. His presence on the ship had been so absolute that it was hard to believe he was gone. Bard’s first instinct was to find him and ask what he was doing, or why he hadn’t shown up to lunch. Sometimes he would even start looking before remembering Feren wasn’t anywhere to be found.

    “You don’t have to sit here.” 

    Glorfindel’s eyes, which had been fixed on something irrelevant, drifted over to Bard ghost-like and desolate.

    “Sometimes I think I’m used to it,” he said, “used to the idea of losing my friends. But it’s always raw… it never stops hurting.”

    “I’ve never lost anyone before. Well, my ma and da when I was a kid, but this… is different,” Bard confessed, adjusting the sleeve of his shirt where he hadn’t put his arm through (he kept his slung right arm underneath his clothes, unable to take the agony in his shoulder when he tried to put his arm through a sleeve. The bullet had driven a deep hole in him). He looked towards the cabin behind Glorfindel where Thranduil was still sleeping, his fate uncertain. Bard had been trying not to dwell on it, but there were times when he wondered if Thranduil would recover. It would be a miracle if he did.

    Glorfindel’s gaze followed Bard’s.

    “That sonofabitch better make it or I’ll find him in the next life and kill him again myself,” he growled.

    Bard clung to two of his words more than the others. “You believe in a next life?”

    Glorfindel shrugged lightly. “Not with any real conviction. But I can’t help but hope, you know?”

    “You’d like to see him again?” Bard asked.

    “Thranduil?”

    “Ecthelion.”

    “Oh.” Glorfindel hesitated. “Sure. I suppose I could kill him too for breaking my heart.”

    “How did he die?” Bard had never dared to ask, but somehow he felt it was finally a good time.

    “No one knows. By someone’s sword, I expect. I wasn’t even there. I only found out after the battle was over, but there wasn’t even a body to say goodbye to.”

    “No body? Why?” said Bard.

    “The sea had already taken him.”

    “I’m sorry.”

    Glorfindel waved his hand dismissively. “I’m the one who is sorry; sorry I never told him.”

    “Told him what?”

    “That I loved him.”

    Bard’s heart stilled. “You never –? But I thought…”

    Glorfindel laughed bitterly. “The bastard died before I could pluck up the courage. And the worst part is that he knew, and felt the same. But we were kids. We weren’t old enough to understand what was really worth holding onto.”

    Bard glanced back to the cabin door, his heart thudding sorely in his chest at the thought of losing Thranduil. It was a reality he had always been aware of – piracy provided little mercy by the way of life and death – but Bard had hoped perhaps a bit too much that he and Thranduil would both make it to the end alive. He understood that, the more he cared, the more it was going to hurt, and yet he cared too much all the same.

    “I can’t fathom you, Bard,” Glorfindel added, his tone a little harder now. “You had a chance to walk away from all this. You had no obligation to stay with us, and yet you did. Why?”

    Bard shrugged his good shoulder. “I found something worth holding onto.”

 

    Bard had been looking for the cat below deck when Elrond found him. It had been four days since they left Greenwood.

    “He’s awake,” he said.

    “Sorry?”

    “Thranduil. He asked for you.”

    “He’s alive?”

    Elrond smiled. “Only just. We were lucky the Queen replenished our supplies so diligently. I do not think he would have made it without the help we were able to offer.”

    Bard ran a hand through his hair, feeling unearthly. “God… he made it.”

    “Go see him. I’ll bring food.”

    Nodding, Bard sprinted up the stairs so fast he tripped and had to grab the rope for support. He whipped through the meandering crew on deck and flew into the cabin. It was oddly bright, but musty and smelling faintly of illness. Thranduil was sitting up in the bed, clutching a bottle of water and staring out the window, blinking blindly at the sunlight. Bard ran to him, falling to his knees by the bed.

    He could smell Thranduil; pine needles and sea salt and hard, dry wood. Bard buried his face into his chest, breathing in deeply, not bothering to keep himself from crying. He had feared he would never breathe this way again.

    Thranduil’s fingers at his hair and ear were like Heaven; like a thousand kisses between the brushes of their skin. But his hand travelled, inching down to the burn on Bard’s neck, which twinged when Thranduil touched it. Bard flinched, moving his head away and looking up.

    Thranduil looked sad; sadder than Bard had ever seen him. His hair, filthy, barely passable for blond, much less silver, was hung in curtains about his face, and dark circles smeared his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in years. His skin was sallow and dry, his cheeks sunken, his complexion grey. He couldn’t even look Bard in the eye; he saw without seeing, moved without moving, and breathed without breathing.

    Bard got up and sat on the edge of the bed, wiping his eyes hastily. He lifted his left hand to brush the hair out of Thranduil’s face. There was a marred, purple bruise on the side of his head. Bard leaned in slowly and kissed him very tenderly on the corner of his mouth.

    “You’re still such a sight,” he whispered.

    He got only the faintest smile for that, but Thranduil seemed to come back to himself with it; as if the rest of him had settled back into the room, curling among the dust and wine stains.

    “I feel terrible.”

    “Well, it could be worse,” Bard reasoned, tucking the hair behind Thranduil’s ear and kissing his cheek. He was very cold.

    “If you felt the way I do right now, you’d not say such a thing,” Thranduil said.

    “Surely death is not better.”

    “It feels like my body is eating itself from the inside out.”

    Bard grimaced.

    The door opened and Elrond shouldered his way in, carrying a tray of food. He approached the bed and Bard moved out of the way of the tray, which was set on Thranduil’s lap.

    Thranduil stared at it impassively. Bread, onion soup, and an apple.

    Bard spread his fingers open expectedly. “Where’s mine?”

    “It’s not dinner time yet,” Elrond said sternly. “Unless you want to be poisoned and bed ridden for four days, I suggest you wait for rations.”

    Bard rolled his eyes, smirking. “Since when do you give orders around here? I rank higher than you, you know.”

    “It wasn’t an order. Elrond is above such things as orders,” Thranduil said, picking up the apple dubiously and rolling it between his hands.

    “Do you even have a position among the crew?” Bard asked the other man. “I never found out if you were assigned one.”

    “He is above positions,” said Thranduil.

    “What, are you some kind of Pirate King? Above and beyond all obligations of piracy?” Bard teased.

    Elrond pressed a finger to his lips. “I’m above such titles, too.”

    “You jest,” said Bard at once. “You cannot be a Pirate King when you're barely even a pirate.”

    Elrond laughed at this. “Whether I am or not, there is no such thing.”

    And with that, he left the cabin again.

    Bard turned to Thranduil. “Is he?”

    “Like he said; there is no such thing,” said Thranduil, abandoning the apple and starting on the soup instead.

    “Then why is he ‘above’ all these things?”

    “It is hard to explain. He did a lot for the pirate rebellion ten years ago; made a name for himself. Pirates respect him. Now, please be quiet.”

    Bard remained silent while Thranduil concentrated on eating. It seemed every mouthful was causing him great anguish, but he persevered, finishing the soup and then cleaning the bowl with the bread, his fingers trembling.

    “Where is Legolas?” he asked.

    “Probably with Tauriel. He is safe, but worried for you. I ought to tell him you’ve woken.”

    “I should not have brought him with us,” Thranduil mumbled. “I was a fool to think I could protect him.”

    “He’s a kid,” Bard said patiently. “You could not have convinced him to go even if you had wanted it. You and he are simply too destined.”

    Thranduil managed a half-smile. “I had hoped my mother would take to him enough to make him stay with her.”

    “Stay with the Queen? Why?”

    “He might be a son of mine, but I am hardly respectable or old enough to be the father that he needs. But if my mother… were to adopt him…”

    Bard’s mouth fell open. “You want him to be the heir instead of you?”

    “Only if it’s something he wanted too,” Thranduil said quickly, biting his lip. “He would have a good life in Greenwood, and he might prove to be a exceptional ruler. My mother still has many years ahead of her, so he will be well of age when she chooses to step down.”

    “But that would mean giving him up,” Bard said. “He would not be your son anymore.”

    Thranduil ran a shaky hand through his dirty hair. “That aside, it is selfish; selfish to choose the sea over duty.”

    Bard lay a hand over Thranduil’s. “Do you not think you deserve to be selfish, Thranduil? Have you not done enough? Do what is right for yourself, not the Queen.”

    “But I’m all she has.”

    “But she is not all that you have. You don't owe her any more.”

 

    It was trial and error after the first day of Thranduil’s recovery. He was sick for the entirety of the journey to Erebor, unable to keep down most of what he ate and drank. No matter how many elixirs Lindir or Elrond poured down his throat, he wasn’t get better. His only mercy was that he wasn’t getting worse either, but Lindir warned Bard not to be optimistic. They had no way of knowing if the poison was out of Thranduil’s system; there was every chance it was merely lying dormant by the elixirs.

    “At this rate he’s going to die before we make it,” said Tauriel anxiously, glancing over her shoulder at Thranduil sitting on port side, wrapped in several blankets and staring at the horizon. “If only he had slept longer.”

    “If he had slept any longer, he definitely would have died,” Bard said sharply. “Once we get to Erebor, he can get some proper care.”

    “This is some mess we’ve got ourselves into.”

    “We all knew it was going to be hard.”

    Tauriel shook her head forlornly. “It feels like we have made so little progress, and yet already someone is lost to us. Already we are facing the consequences of our actions before those actions can be recognised.”

    Bard tried to bar himself against the fresh wave of grief that caught him, gritting his teeth. “It isn’t right. We should not have to sacrifice ourselves for this. What is the point if we do not live to see what our victory achieves?”

    He kicked the side of the vessel angrily, hissing when he stubbed his toe on the hard panels. Tauriel flinched at his violence, but lay a gentle hand on his arm.

    “We accepted the fate that was given to us. People die for worse reasons than this.”

    “And how do our own stupid choices factor into our fate? How can you justify your decisions when they only lead to suffering?”

    Tauriel now looked taken aback, her brow furrowed with disapproval. “Is suffering not a choice in itself? The world is always going to be cruel, but it’s on us if we let it hurt more than it intended.”

    “You know that isn’t true,” Bard muttered.

    “It is true,” said Tauriel, her expression hardening. “Forgive me for discrediting your grief, Bard, but you do not know the first thing about suffering.”

    She walked away, leaving Bard to sigh irritably and stare across the water.

    “You are upsetting my crew,” said a voice behind him.

    Bard turned to see Thranduil at his shoulder, free of all but one blanket, which he pulled tightly around his shoulders. He was still weak and ashen-faced.

    “They are getting on my nerves,” Bard grumbled, turning back to the sea.

    Thranduil leaned on the ship’s railing gingerly. His movements were measured and gentle, as if cautious to bruise himself.

    “Do you know what happened to Tauriel when we were in the palace?” he said.

    Bard shook his head, already feeling ashamed for his outburst. Thranduil had that effect on people; able to reprimand them just by altering the tone of his voice.

    “Nothing very bad, really – not compared to rest of us. You will notice she was not even branded... because branding a slave as something else makes them worthless.”

    “Are slaves branded?” said Bard.

    “Here,” said Thranduil, tapping two long fingers to his ribcage. “Easily hidden, but still there. Slaves – like all tradable goods – must be attractive in order to entice a buyer. The King saw Tauriel for what she was straight away. To the eyes of smugglers and traders, you never stop being a slave. And a girl like Tauriel... well, she’s expensive. I daresay she would have fetched a very pretty price if we hadn’t escaped.”

    “What are you saying?”

    “Some inflictions are a violation of the soul, and that can never be made undone. Tauriel is a victim of slavery, which is something neither you nor I will ever understand, and you just told her that she isn’t worth the risk it takes to save her.”

    Bard’s knuckles were white on the railing. “I did not mean it that way.”

    Thranduil straightened up, fixing Bard with a blank look. “I know that, and so does she, but you cannot let grief blind you. Losing Feren has been hard on us all, but we do not have the privilege to give up on the lives we promised to save.”

    

    Erebor was in their sights on the tenth day; a great, arching mountain in the middle of the sea, surrounding by forest and farmland and smaller, rocky mountains capped with trees and snow. From afar, it looked like a tiny island, but as the _Eryn Lasgalen_ drifted ever closer, the circumference of the country was lost to the mist and waves and the size of the mountain was visible by its distance from the shore. Its sheer enormity sent a shiver down Bard’s spine.

    It was bitterly cold in the north. Frost laced the masts and rigging in the morning and the deck was slippery with ice. The ghostly chill worsened Thranduil’s already frail condition; he developed a dry, heaving cough and complained of headaches and pains. But despite this, he could not be persuaded to stay inside his cabin as it made him feel caged and forgotten. Bard knew he could not bear the indoors after his time inside a cell. Short a time though it was, Thranduil was a pirate, and he craved open spaces.

    Lethuin emerged from the hold for the first time in days as they approached Erebor. He was paler and thinner than even Thranduil and he dragged his prosthetic leg in the wake of his step, looking dejecting. Pulling on a coat to stave off the frost, he stared across the water to the country with an odd expression on his face.

    He was not alone in this response to their arrival. Most of the crew also stared, looking as solemn as funeral-goers, and it took Bard a moment to realise that’s exactly what they were; they mourned the battle that took place on that shore. They mourned those others they had lost to the cause.

    “I can’t believe we are back where we started,” said Nimrodel sourly, swinging down from the foreyard. “It feels like we’re going around in circles.”

    There was almost no harbour to speak of. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ sidled into a weathered and miserable dock in a lonely little bay and the pirates weighed anchor, preparing themselves to land.

    “Are those their ships?” Bard asked in amazement as the plank was lowered and bags were packed. He pointed across the docks to the two dozen vessels bobbing up and down in the water, looking abandoned and small.

    “Is that what you’d call them?” said Elrond critically. “Those are dinghies, son, and that’s being kind.”

    “Does Erebor not require ships?”

    “It’s a self-sustained country. Those ships are only for travelling to the Iron Hills and back.”

    “But what if they need to go to battle?”

    Elrond chuckled. “Go? What battles could they possibly need to go to? Thorin has so much gold that enemies come to _him_ for a fight. Erebor is one of the most coveted countries in the world for its wealth and position, and anyone who tries to claim it goes home with their tail between their legs. I mean, a dragon tried to take it, and even _he_ failed... more or less.”

    Bard grinned and hoisted his rucksack over his good shoulder. “And yet we are the ones welcome to set foot here.”

    “A bunch of thieving, good-for-nothing pirates are better friends with Oakenshield than a fellow King. I wonder if that reflects poorly on Oropher, or well on us,” Elrond mused.

    “I think both,” piped up Meludir from behind them.

    “Both,” said Bard in agreement, and he followed the procession down the plank.

    Beyond the docks, there was no civilisation in sight; no houses, no people, nothing. It was windy and cold and only a vale in the mountains seemed to lead anywhere apparently worth going. There was no other flatland to be seen; only rocks and mountains and sad trees. It had not yet begun to snow so close to the shore, but Bard imagined the centre of the country, behind the mountain, was blanketed in white.

    “Not a very warm welcome, is it?” said Mithrellas, tightening her shawl around her as they walked. Her dress snagged on stray brambles and rocks.

    “Still warmer than our last visit,” said Galion darkly.

    “Can we not call ahead for carriages?” asked Tauriel.

    “They’d have horses sent,” replied Glorfindel with a frown, hitching Asfaloth higher on his hip and making the cat yowl with indignation. “I’d much rather walk.”

    “Horses aren’t bad,” said Elrond.

    “You’ve spent too much time on land,” Glorfindel admonished.

    Elrond gave an agreeable sort of grimace, evidently unable to argue the point.

    The pirates carried themselves through the vale with difficulty, unaccustomed to trekking long distances on a surface that didn’t sway or rock or jolt beneath their feet. Being on land was unnerving; it was hard and demanding and refusing to move for those that walked upon it. And, even on flatland, it constantly felt like they were going uphill, their legs seizing and their footfalls unnecessarily heavy.

    Beyond the vale was a rough, wide path that snaked through the mountains, making it easier to travel by, but lengthening the time it would take to get to the capital. It twisted up and down and around the mountains and hills, dipping into valleys and streams.

    “It will take hours to get there,” Rúmil moaned, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of it. “What kind of country is this?”

    “Dale is over that mountain,” Elrond said, pointing to where the path disappeared over a hill. “It is a decent hike, but not really that far.”

    While the others shuffled on, Bard hastened his stride to catch up with Thranduil, who was at the front of the group with Legolas and Lindir, walking slowly but assuredly.

    “Are you alright?”

    Thranduil was clutching his stomach, breathing very hard and fast. “It is easier if I don’t speak.”

    “If my shoulder wasn’t bad, I would carry you,” said Bard.

    Thranduil let out a shaky laugh. “I keep looking behind me to see if Feren might oblige to such a request.”

    Bard glanced instinctively behind to see if Feren was nearby. He shook his head crossly. “We lost about fifty percent of our muscle,” he said.

    “Oh, I don’t know,” said Thranduil. “You and Amroth are good competition.”

    “Me?” Bard blushed in the bitter cold.

    “Perhaps the pirate life suits you better than you expected.”

    Bard said nothing to this, but stayed with Thranduil for the rest of the journey. Legolas flitted about the group, running ahead, chasing the cat, and then falling behind again to play and talk to people. He was excited to be somewhere new and seemed to revel in the strangeness of the land, picking up rocks and sticks and asking about trees he had never seen before. But his energy eventually ran out and Glorfindel carried him on his back.

    It was dusk when they finally reached the overlook. The hills dived very suddenly into a valley and there was Dale, a city of stone parapets and high buildings with wide, open windows and low, rounded roofs. The houses and shops climbed up a mountain side, built with the land, not in spite of it, sporting stairs and bridges and archways to better navigate the area. It was the largest capital Bard had ever seen, spreading across the entire vale and over a stream.

    “That’s the Lonely Mountain,” Thranduil said, pointing beyond the city to a great mountain, which Bard realised was the one they had seen from the sea, peaking high above the rest of the country and rising up into the clouds.

    “Where’s the palace?”

    “That’s it. If you look closely, you can see the windows and towers built into the mountain itself.”

    “The palace is a _mountain_?” Bard gaped. “But that’s just showing off.”

    Thranduil laughed and gestured to the rocky stairs that crept down the mountainside, leading towards the city. The sun had started to sink to the horizon, casting Dale in a burning orange light, as if dragon fire had engulfed it.

    Unlike Laketown – or even Imladris – Dale was built upwards. The winding, cobbled streets interwove three or sometimes four-storey buildings of flaxen stone. Pot plants and lanterns adorned open windows while trees and shrubs claimed corners and fissures. Washing lines hung between houses and balconies greeted other balconies. Children dashed through alleys and shops and women walked arm-in-arm in the market square, admiring displays and making wishes in the fountain. And, as night began to fall, people wandered the streets and lit lampposts to guide the way. Bard even forgot it was cold, for the city seemed to defy the wind and snow, maintaining warmth and cheer.

    The pirates meandered through the city, making for the road that led to the mountain. People stared at them as they passed, whispering and pointing, but not in the way Bard had come to expect from locals. It seemed to him that the townsfolk had been awaiting their arrival and the whispers sounded excited and relieved.

    “Never did I imagine to be greeted with such enthusiasm here,” Thranduil said, coughing into his fist. “We practically tried to rob the place during our last visit.”

    “I daresay they have a different opinion of us now that we are here to make them richer,” said Elrond bitterly. 

    “Does the dragon hoarding other people’s valuables impair their finances?” Bard asked.

    “Of course. People pay Thorin interest to ensure the safety of their money and jewels, and are even charged extra to have the dragon protect them. But it is only worth it if they can actually get their possessions back when they want. With Smaug hoarding everything as his own, people are now refusing to pay any interest until their items are returned, so Thorin is facing bankruptcy. A great many people took fancy to a dragon guarding their valuables, so the interest he collects for the basic vault barely covers the cost of governing this place.”

    Bard pondered this for a minute. “Surely he must have known better than to trust a dragon.”

    “It wasn’t Thorin’s idea,” Elrond clarified. “His good-for-nothing grandfather was the one with the plan to strike a bargain with the dragon. Everyone told him the serpent would double-cross him – that’s what dragons _do_ – but he did not listen, and now Thorin is stuck trying to clean up his family’s mess, and he only became head of the family two years ago.”

    “Now I feel sorry for him,” Bard admitted.

    “I don’t,” said Thranduil at once.

    “Is there bad blood between you?”

    Elrond snorted. “Hardly. Thranduil just hates the man.”

    “But that’s unfair,” said Bard.

    Thranduil scowled. “You’ve not met him. He is stubborn, and hot-headed, and unreasonable.”

    “Sounds like someone else I know,” Bard muttered to Elrond, who stifled another laugh.

    They climbed the path to the mountain where the entrance was; stone double doors, taller and wider than a giant. As they approached, they began to grind open inwards and Bard watched as three people burst from the steadily growing gap, running towards the pirates.

    Elros, Erestor and Haldir all collided with various members of the crew; Elros with his brother and nephews, Erestor with Lindir and Glorfindel, and Haldir with Orophin and Rúmil, his embrace tight and clutching before he wrapped Thranduil in a hug as well.

    “The Queen sent word you were captured in Greenwood. We feared the worst,” he said, releasing Thranduil. “You have only just made it in time for the council meeting. The representatives arrived a few days ago.”

    “Let them breathe,” Elros said, tugging Haldir back. “Come in out of the cold.”

    The crew filed through the doors and into a brightly lit foyer that had a ceiling so high Bard wondered that it didn’t break open to the tip of the mountain. A chandelier the size of a ship glistened above, pooling endless light unto more stone and archways and stairs. The palace was like a shrine to the very mountain; a cathedral of carved awnings and glittering rock.

    “Dinner will be served soon, but I expect you would all like to bathe first,” Elros continued, leading them to a passageway to the side of the foyer.

    “Is there an infirmary here?” Lindir cut in. “Captain has pneumonia.”

    “It’s not pneumonia,” Thranduil grumbled. The walk had ailed him. Bard gave his good arm for support and Thranduil accepted it, leaning heavily.

    “Like Hell it isn’t,” Lindir spat. “He’ll not last much longer without proper rest and treatment.”

    Elros nodded. “Erestor will take you. Find Bilbo; he can organise a room for you.”

    “I didn’t know Bilbo had such influence in these parts,” Thranduil said as Erestor took him, Lindir and Bard back to the foyer and down a different passage.

    “I _told you,_ ” said Bard excitedly. “He and Thorin have something between them.”

    They found Bilbo in a small library reading a book, for once looking utterly relaxed and at home, dressed in fine clothes and furs. Upon seeing Thranduil, he snapped his book shut and stood up, looking concerned.

    “Is there a physician here?” Lindir asked.

    “What are you plaguing us with?” Bilbo returned, crossing his arms and glaring at Thranduil.

    “He was poisoned,” Bard answered urgently.

    Bilbo frowned. “I do not think a physician will cut it. I will find you a room.”

    Erestor took his leave and the other three followed Bilbo up several flights of stairs (also made of stone, just as the walls and many doors were) and down endless, mazing corridors to a small, but cosy bed chamber with two adjoining rooms and a wide, bay window that faced the city below. Bard helped Thranduil onto the bed and peered outside. They were at an immeasurable height; the people of Dale looked like ants roaming an extensive hill. Bard swallowed the terror that billowed up inside him at the thought of falling that distance to the ground.

    Bilbo excused himself to fetch whoever it was he thought might be able help while Lindir set about making a fire. Bard helped Thranduil out of his coat and shoes, setting aside his weapons and hat.

    “If I had known I would have my work cut out for me to such an extent, I never would have come on this ludicrous venture,” said Lindir, standing up from the fire, which crackled and flooded the little room with warmth.

    “If you had not come, Thranduil would be dead,” Bard snarled.

    “I doubt it,” Lindir said calmly. “Spite has kept many a thing alive before him.”

    Thranduil’s laugh turned into a coughing fit, but Bard glared at Lindir reproachfully.

    Lindir sighed. “I’ll draw you a bath,” he said, and he moved to one of the adjoining rooms where Bard spied a bathtub.

    “All these castles have fancy plumbing now,” he observed. “It must cost a fortune to keep it running.”

    “No wonder Oakenshield is going bankrupt. His house is too big,” Thranduil quipped, and then he coughed again.

    Bard pressed a hand to his forehead, frowning. “You’re burning up again.”

    Thranduil waved him away impatiently. “I haven't the time for this. I should be meeting with Oakenshield.”

    “You should be resting. I can speak for you until you are better.”

    “No, you cannot. The Council need to be convinced that I am a viable option for an alliance. Sending someone in my stead will not achieve that,” Thranduil said resolutely.

    “There is still time until the meeting. You have plenty of opportunity to rest,” Bard countered.

    The door opened before Thranduil could reply to this. Turning around, hoping for the physician, Bard was shocked into silence to see Lady Galadriel enter the room – and in such a way that made him think she had drifted in by mistake. She was wearing her usual rags, her feet bare and most of her milky skin exposed. Bard shivered just to look at her, but she herself did not seem bothered by the cold. Clutching a basket in one hand, she cast about the room with her good eye, coming to rest on Thranduil and smiling her wide, cat-like smile.

    “What a lovely surprise,” she sang, pushing back her long, white dreadlocks. “I must say I’m pleased to see the snitch who gave up my hiding place is paying for his mistake.”

    Thranduil swore and dropped his face into his hands.

    “How do you know he gave you away?” said Bard in astonishment. “And how did you get here before us?”

    “I swam,” Galadriel said dismissively. “And I always know when someone is talking about me. Say my name and I can hear a conversation from across the world. And this one –” she pointed a sharp, brown finger at Thranduil “– gave me away to King Oropher. Very rude of you, Thranduil. I expected better.”

    “Any one of us could have given you up,” said Bard, coming to Thranduil’s defence. “We’ve been through a lot.”

    “Perhaps. Either way, I am here, and I think your Captain has endured enough punishment for the time being.”

    She floated over, taking the basket to the fire. She dug about in it, humming, clinking bottles and retrieving strange plants and elixirs. As she did, Lindir emerged from the bathroom and, upon spotting her, rolled his eyes very deliberately. 

    “I take it I am no longer needed,” he said stonily.

    “No, you can stay,” said Galadriel absently, pulling a small cauldron out of the basket (was it bottomless? Bard wondered). “You can clean up afterwards.”

    “That’s seem to be all I’ve done these past few months; clean up other people’s mess.”

    “Shush. You’re being a bore.”

    Galadriel proceeded to mix several ingredients in the cauldron over the fire as if she were simply cooking an elaborate soup, adding drops of potions and leaves of herbs and plants. It looked very complicated, but there was no doubt she knew what she was doing. The cauldron began to bubble and give off a faint smell of gunpowder. When it was done, she dipped a ladle into the concoction and poured it into a bowl. This she handed to Thranduil.

    “I am not drinking that,” he said, staring in mortification.

    “You wanna die?”

    He grimaced, but took the bowl from Galadriel. With a deep breath and closed eyes, he drank the soup in one, and then promptly clapped a hand to his mouth, his eyes watering.

    “Keep it down,” Galadriel said, retrieving her cauldron. She poured the remainder of the soup into a large flask and corked it, looking quite satisfied with herself.

    “That was horrific,” Thranduil said, smacking his lips in disgust.

    “Well, you gonna live now, so you’re welcome. You just need to rest for a few days. Now, if you do not mind, I’ll be outside where I belong.” Galadriel made for the door, looking disgruntled. “I am not at all impressed with how you pirates have handled yourselves. Not only do I have to find a new place to live, but I’m stuck in this awful mountain until I do.”

    “Why was the King looking for you?” Bard said.

    Galadriel grinned toothily. “That’s none of your business.”

    “Hey! Half the crew were nearly beaten to death to keep your secret. Feren died, even. We have a right to know.”

    “You are a pirate. You don’t have a right to anything,” Galadriel said viciously before slamming the door closed behind her.

    “That was uncalled for,” Bard said in the penetrating silence that followed.

    Thranduil got up from the bed. “Pay her no mind. Witches do as they please until it pleases someone else.”

    “I do not like her,” said Lindir. “She always makes fun of my healing methods; thinks she is better than me.”

    “Is she?” said Bard.

    Lindir snorted. “I am hardly any kind of competition to a witch. But I kept the Captain alive, did I not? My methods are perfectly adequate.”

    “Thank you, Lindir. You can go,” said Thranduil.

    “Are you sure? I personally do not trust what she just gave you.”

    “I’m fine.”

    Lindir shrugged and left. Without him, it was eerily quiet, the fire making the only discernible noise. The mountain seemed to shut off the outside world. It was entirely singular, like a world within a world within a world.

    Thranduil rubbed his eyes wearily. He still looked sickly and exhausted, but he was no longer coughing or shaking.

    It suddenly seemed to Bard that the past week had gone by very quickly. All their planning and sailing and fretting had led up to this moment – arriving in Erebor, securing an alliance – and it was met with silence; with a hazy, blank exchange of eye contact and the supernatural return of an old acquaintance, who did not feel real to them anymore now that she had left again. Bard did not like the anti-climactic version of this story; he wished for more attention and sound – for something to happen. When there was nothing, it felt like they were hovering, suspended, waiting for tragedy to strike, as it so often had, surprising them, taking advantage, ruining them when they were soft.

    Without a word, Thranduil went to the wash room where Lindir had prepared the bath. He stripped and lowered himself into the water. Bard winced at the bruises that marred his body – along his ribs, back and chest, and around his wrists where the shackles had been (Bard had these too). Though they were mostly healed, they still seemed to cause him pain. Bard felt guilty. He wished he had been able to free Thranduil and the other's sooner, but the Queen had been determined for a fool-proof plan - one that would have protected her. Privately, Bard thought Nemireth was the selfish one; she was cold, calculating, and obsessed with keeping a respectable appearance. She was a user of others and unashamed of it. Bard wondered if Thranduil knew this; wondered if he knew his mother was just as easily corrupted by power as her husband.

    Whether Thranduil knew or not, Bard would not tell him. Already too much had been sacrificed for the quest; Bard would not have Thranduil abandon it now.

    He turned to leave, but Thranduil asked him to stay.

    “Surely you are tired of my company by now,” Bard said, hesitating at the door.

    “Yours is the only company I can bear.”

    Bard bit back a smile and went to sit on the floor by the bathtub. The washroom was dark and tiled, adorned with gold taps and copper pipes. A mirror hung over a sink where a stack of neatly folded towels waited.

    He leaned his cheek on the warm tub, settling his slung arm against his stomach and listening to the water swirl and echo as Thranduil moved in it. He wondered what would happen now, here, in this mountain, where they were suddenly so cut off from the rest of the world. For the briefest, most blissful moment, Bard thought that everything would finally be okay after this; that they would be suspended in this void forever.

    “It’s hard to believe we’re inside a mountain,” he said.

    “What a claustrophobic thought,” Thranduil murmured, resting back in the water.

    “The sea makes us crave open spaces,” Bard agreed. “Beautiful, endless, and free.”

    “Is that the sea?”

    “It’s many things.”

    “Such as?”

    “Valleys, woods, the sky, the stars… and you.”

    Thranduil smiled, sinking lower into the water, his cheeks flushed from steam.

    “Tell me more of the sea,” he whispered.


	24. A Secret Alliance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's not totally obvious, I have no idea what I'm doing with this fic politically. I always struggled with politics, but I've somehow dragged myself into the middle of a story that actually requires a lot more than I was anticipating. I've got some of it figured out, but I'm winging it for the most part, so you'll have to excuse any inconsistencies in the plot. I'm trying my best to stick with (and remember) everyone's specific involvement, but it's quite a bit harder than I thought it would be. In any case, I hope you don't find the politics too tedious. I'll be keeping it to a minimum as much as I can because I want to focus on characters arcs, back-stories and relationships for the next few chapters. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading! I hope it's been worthwhile so far.

Despite the time they spent in Erebor, Bard never got used to it; never got used to the altitude of his room that made his head spin, or the encased, solitary feel of the mountain, unwholesome and cold, twisting and rising and losing him, making him late for dinner. Coupled with this was the indeterminate period they stayed; after the council meeting, Bard kept them expecting to leave at any moment. And yet, while the topic of leaving was a regular discussion, the days fell into weeks before the pirates so much as set a foot or a peg beyond the city of Dale.

    The room was so bright that first morning that it was hard to open his eyes. Bard squinted at the window, wondering why there were no curtains, wondering where he even was. It took him several minutes to remember, but he smiled lightly when he did, because the surge of relief was indescribable. After months, he was clean and well-fed and sleeping in a room that didn’t smell of seawater and mildew and old rum. Pirate or not, there were some pleasures that the sea simply couldn’t offer Bard.

    Turning over in the bed, he found Thranduil in the sheets beside him, splayed out and breathing heavily with sleep, monopolizing the many blankets so that Bard, his back and shoulders exposed to the air, shivered in the crisp dawn. But it didn’t matter, because Thranduil was warm and supple again, his fever gone as if it had never been and his hair a veil of starlight on the pillow. Bard snaked his good arm around his waist, inching closer and waking him, for it had been weeks since he’d had the privilege. Never mind that they had barely touched since that night in Greenwood, Bard had missed the weight of another person next to him in the bed. That, and he had come to learn how truly uncomfortable the bunks below deck were in comparison.

    There was the deep, steady incline in Thranduil’s breathing as he woke, his chest rising beneath the sheets. He shifted onto his back, stretching luxuriously, responding to Bard’s touch with a smile.

    “This must be some kind of miracle,” he said.

    “I thought you didn’t believe in miracles,” Bard teased.

    Thranduil looked at him, his eyes – bluer than Bard had ever seen them, like the ocean they both craved – alight with wonder. He said nothing, but Bard didn’t need him to. Instead, he rolled over until he was on top of Bard, kissing him full on the mouth. Oddly, he held that bitter aftertaste of apples, just like the first time. Just like every time.

    “I believe in you,” he whispered.

    Bard raised his arm, framing Thranduil’s face with his hand, running his fingers through his silken hair. He wished it could be enough to love him, and to be loved just the same. In another lifetime, perhaps, or another world altogether. Their hands – coarse, fumbling, made for holding swords and pistols, but not each other – might have written letters, held books Bard could really read, cooked food, made tea, knocked on the doors of familiar houses for dinner, wandered and held fast and sure, and softened under a normal, cherished life. But the world didn’t work like that for Thranduil and Bard. It asked for them for its miracles, and it would never offer them in return.

    This wasn’t something Bard thought of often; it was ultimately enough just to be with Thranduil, no matter the lifetime or the world or the hands. They were sacrificing a great deal more than just a picket fence and grandchildren. But he couldn’t help but wonder at the potential of circumstances; wonder at what might have been, if these circumstances had been different. But, for what it was worth, Bard would never come to regret his decision, even after the voyage was over.

   

    Now that he was recovered, it was interesting to see Thranduil moving again. He was meticulous and moody, unable to satisfy himself with the wardrobe selection he and Bard had been provided with by the maid who brought breakfast and took their old clothes to be washed. Thranduil insisted he wanted to make a good impression when he met with Thorin, but Bard knew that, deep down, he just wanted to show off.

    “You could wear your hat,” he joked. “Assert your dominance.”

    Thranduil lowered the tunic he was inspecting, glowering at Bard, who made a defensive gesture with his hand and ducked into the wash room to tie back his hair, knowing better than to antagonise Thranduil any further.

    It was an affronting thing, to see his reflection. Bard had caught glimpses here and there – Imladris, Greenwood, Dorwinion, even Thranduil’s cabin – but in the wash room mirror in Erebor, he saw himself clearly for the first time in months. He was taller, if only by one or two inches, and he had filled out generously, no longer the scrawny, poorly fed kid from the docks hauling fish. His hair was passed his shoulders and had lightened from endless hours in the sun. His skin, too, was richly tanned, and smattered with freckles, bruises, and scars. The slash he had sustained from his first fight had left a mark – a thin, perfectly straight line right across his chest – but he knew it was nothing compared to what the shot in his shoulder would leave on his back, or the burn on his neck (still raw and prickling, beginning to itch now that it was healing).

    In many ways, Bard had already forgotten the brand was there. He could no longer deny his piracy, nor would he want to. He wasn’t ashamed, and he wasn’t alone.

    So, as he pulled a shirt over his head and tied back his hair, hissing as he lifted his bad shoulder to do both these things, he privately agreed that he wasn’t all that bad of a sight. How he had managed to secure himself a place beside Thranduil was still beyond his comprehension, but he wasn’t about to complain.

    “Is gold too pretentious?” Thranduil asked, poking his head through the door.

    “Wear the red one,” Bard suggested.

    “I’m not sure red is my colour,” Thranduil said, trailing away again.

    Bard stared at his reflection blankly, no longer registering it. He had seen red on Thranduil many times – smeared on his clothes after a fight, dripping from his sword or hair or mouth, staining his hands, blurring the blue in his eyes – and Bard didn’t want to admit that it suited him very well.

    Breakfast was a laden tray on the bed, accompanied by a short letter that greeted Thranduil to Erebor. Bard admired the wide, cursive loops on Thorin’s signature, wishing he could write like that. He didn’t read the letter, unable to make sense of it, but surveyed it with interest, stuffing a piece of bread into his mouth as he did so.

    “What’s this word?” he mumbled through the food, pointing to the parchment.

    Thranduil look over his tea to read it. “Sympathetic,” he said.

    “And this one?”

    “Admirable.”

    “Admiral?”

    “No. Like admiring.”

    “Oh.”

    Bard looked back down at the letter, frowning at the words he could not understand, which were quite a few, he was ashamed to see. Not only that, but he had trouble reading even the words he did know, for they blurred and reorganised themselves, forcing him to concentrate particularly hard. It was always this way, but Thorin’s script made it a great deal worse.

    “It is very formal,” Thranduil said absently, taking an apple from the bowl of fruit between them. “He doesn’t speak like that.”

    “I can’t read it,” Bard said, admitting defeat.

    Thranduil offered him a kind expression. “There is nothing to read. But we are to meet him in the parlour on the ground floor at ten.”

    “Will the Council be there?” Bard inquired, setting the letter aside.

    “No. The meeting is not for two weeks,” Thranduil said, slicing his apple with a knife.

    “But they have arrived already?”

    Thranduil rolled his eyes, but not at Bard. “It is nonsense. The Council representatives – that is to say, those who are not on Thorin’s Council – must be received for at least a fortnight prior to the initial meeting. This gives them an opportunity to put forth and clarify questions, observe the lifestyle of the country and how its people fair under the current monarchy or government, and hold smaller, inconclusive meetings in private. I attended a few of these in my younger years and, if you ask me, it’s a ridiculous waste of time. I certainly won’t be involving myself in the preliminaries of this gathering. I will attend the meeting in two weeks and if that fails, I will see myself to that dragon illegally if I must. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be here at all, but I am being pressured into it.”

    He concluded this by setting down his knife and taking an apple slice.

    “Who are the Council members?” Bard said, curious now for he had never understood or been remotely interested in matters of state or politics.

    “Representatives from various countries,” Thranduil said, now checking off his fingers as he continued, “the Shire, Lothlorien, Dorwinion, Greenwood, the Iron Hills, some mercenaries, and independent traders and families. The alliance concerns a great many people in Middle Earth. Oakenshield’s family have not allied themselves with anyone for a millennia, so we are witnessing a moment in history.”

    “But if someone from Greenwood is present, won’t your father find out you are here for the alliance as well?” Bard posed.

    Thranduil shrugged. “It matters very little if he does because, in his eyes, there is no chance for us to win the vote, because we initially have nothing to offer Oakenshield. Not only is Greenwood Erebor’s closest and most powerful neighbour, but it already has the Council’s favour, so I don’t think the King would be overly concerned.”

    “Then how are we to win that favour instead?” Bard said.

    “Well, we are representing Greenwood as well, are we not? No other representative knows this, of course, but we are ultimately offering the same thing, just not in the immediate future and with a different monarch. A better one.”

    Bard considered this. “But we can’t win with that..."

    Thranduil smiled. “No, which is why we need to make Oropher look bad.”

    “Look bad?”

    “The main objective of politics is to make the opposing team look unfavourable to yourself, and when the Council finds out Greenwood has been dabbling heavily in slavery, they will no longer be a viable option.”

    Bard thought about this, too, for several minutes while Thranduil ate his apple, humming to himself quietly.

    “But doesn’t this mean you’re revealing your true nature to… everyone? Won’t you be giving up the Queen by showing your hand?”

    Thranduil’s face fell momentarily. “Oh… no, not exactly.”

    “No?”

    “I will be propositioning myself as the alternate monarch – it fits with the story that has been spread about me.”

    Bard’s heart shifted uneasily. “But doesn’t that put you in danger if you win?”

    “No more danger than I am already in,” Thranduil said superficially. He picked up his tea to preoccupy himself, not meeting Bard’s eyes.

    Bard fixed him with a hard stare. “What?”

    Thranduil sighed into his cup. “The Queen wants this alliance very badly, but if the King finds out what we’re up to, he has the right to come and claim my alliance for himself if we do not retrieve the gems in time. Since I am not _currently_ the King, we are by all accounts pitching ourselves for his cause under the pretext of our own. But it's completely sound so long as everything goes according to plan.”

    “What does that mean? What plan?”

    “We have to kill the Greenwood representative before they can inform him.” Thranduil said this with no reservations, but the small indent between his brows did not disappear.

    Bard could no longer hold his silence. He was tired of Thranduil bearing the burden of his actions just because his Queen asked it of him. Though he would never admit it, Bard knew Thranduil well enough to see how much it bothered him. The Queen asked too much of her son.

    “This is wrong. And you know it.”

    Thranduil said nothing, but closed his eyes and set down his cup. Bard stood up from the bed, his temper flaring.

    “Deny it all you like, but you know your mother is just as corrupt as the King. She may be a better alternative to his cruelty, but that doesn’t make her a better person. She uses everyone she can for her own benefit without thinking twice about the consequences. She’s sending her own son into a dragon’s den without so much as batting an eyelid! Doesn’t that concern you?”

    “Of course it concerns me!” Thranduil snapped, glaring at Bard. “But what choice do I have? I do not want to be King. She is the only person who can restore Greenwood to its former glory, without lies and without slavery.”

    “But she’s heartless, Thranduil, and she’s asking you to be heartless too.”

    Thranduil did not respond to this at this, but stared down at his empty cup, as though willing it to give him the strength he needed.

    “Maybe I already am heartless,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s why she asked me.”

    Bard dropped to one knee, taking Thranduil’s hand in his own, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder as he jostled his right arm. His kissed Thranduil's fingers, very tenderly, and held them to his lips.

    “The heartless are not so easily loved by their friends, nor do they love quite so completely in return,” he said.

    Thranduil smiled weakly, his eyes crinkling in the corners. With his face to the window and his clothes pressed and clean, Bard couldn’t help but wonder at how beautiful he was, and how terrible his life had turned out to be. And yet, for all his grief and regret, when his eyes met Bard’s, he did not look sorry.

    “Come,” Bard said, getting to his feet again. “We don’t want to be late to meet our host. It’s a long way down those stairs.”

   

    Outside the warm, fire lit room it was offensively cold. Bard had to hurry back and fetch the cloak he had initially discarded, thinking he wouldn’t need it. Thranduil pulled his own closer around him, looking unfairly noble and every bit the Prince he had been born. But while Bard had always noticed the recesses of Thranduil’s royalty in his stride and temperament, he now saw an unbalanced quirkiness in him that did not befit a Prince, such as the unconscious way he rubbed the side of his nose when he was thinking, or the way he threw himself about when he sat down, lounging and spreading as if all the room in the world wasn’t enough. And during their time in Greenwood, Bard had observed the slow, measured way nobles had walked in the streets. Thranduil didn’t walk like that; his stride was long and purposeful, just as it was now, walking down the corridor from their bedchamber.

    “You’ve met Thorin before?” Bard said, turning right to take the staircase (a set of some hundreds, he would come to learn).

    “A few brief times, when we were children,” Thranduil answered curtly. He was still unsettled by their conversation, clearly drifting between thoughts and emotions, unable to steady himself.

    “Not during your last – er – visit?”

    “No, he wasn’t home when we made port that day. And regardless of that, it was the Oropher’s men who attacked, not Thrain’s. I may bear ill tidings towards Oakenshield, but I am sensible enough not to lay blame where there is none. He is caught in the middle of a war he did not start.”

    “So why don’t you like him?” Bard prompted.

    “We do not get along,” said Thranduil simply, shaking his shoulders in a nettled sort of way that told Bard he ought not press the issue any further.

    He and Thranduil walked on in silence, taking stairs down and down and down to the ground floor of the mountain. It hadn’t felt quite so far on their way up the previous day, but it took them fifteen minutes to get to the parlour where they were meeting Thorin.

    “I take it we will not be spending much time upstairs,” Bard panted, pausing on the final landing to catch his breath. “And what will Lethuin do? He cannot possibly walk all these stairs!”

    “He may be on a lower level. Goodness knows where the rest of us were put,” Thranduil said, smoothing back his hair unnecessarily.

    Bilbo was waiting for them at the entrance to another corridor, dressed once again in fineries and furs that were never offered to him aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_. He waved to Bard and Thranduil and, as they joined him, they saw to their surprise that Elrond and Amroth were was also there, dressed to the nose like kings.

    “Is this everyone?” Bilbo asked.

    Bard had never even asked Thranduil if his attendance was permitted. Considering it now, he realised he was hardly important enough to be introduced to Thorin personally – he was just a sailor, after all. He had never held significant rank nor noble title. Hell, he had barely rubbed two coins together until he became a pirate.

    But before Bard could presume to protest, Thranduil nodded his head and the two of them followed Bilbo, Elrond and Amroth down the wide, brightly lit corridor.

    “What are you doing here?” Thranduil asked the other two.

    Elrond smiled smugly. “I’m here as a representative for Imladris, and Amroth for Lothlorien.”

    Thranduil laughed with amusement. “You do yourselves a disservice by being pirates, you know that?”

    “Speaking of which, everything has been a right mess since you turned up last night,” Bilbo said from the front of the company. “The rest of the assembly are having a field day.”

    “Because of us?” said Bard.

    “Certainly. They aren’t happy that a pirate – nay, multiple pirates – will be attending the meeting. Nothing they can do about it, of course, but you lot are ruffling feathers nonetheless. It’s not the done thing, you know?”

    Next to Bard, Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Heaven forbid we sully the gentry with our presence.”

    Bilbo chuckled at this. “No pirate has ever sat down to a council meeting, much less offered himself for the alliance.”

    “Pirates we may be, but Amroth and I were Princes first, and Elrond is a Lord. We will not be so easily sneered at.”

    Bilbo flashed an admiring smirk in Thranduil’s direction just as they came upon a set of double doors, ornately carved with round, golden handles. Bard straightened his slouch and smoothed out his tunic in time for Bilbo to knock and be granted entrance.

    The parlour was a small room, warmly lit by a fire and fragile-looking crystal chandelier, which hung level with a gallery that wound itself around three walls of books. In the centre were squashy, comfortable sofas and armchairs with deep, red upholstery and fine arms and legs of rich hardwood. It was homely and quiet, the sound of the crackling fire permeating the stillness and the tall, diamond-panelled window flooding white sunlight inside.

    Bard held no expectations where Thorin Oakenshield was concerned, having never been shown a portrait or provided with a description. He looked a surprisingly great deal like his sister - dark, his eyes deep-set, but with more than a foot of height on her and thicker beard. His hair, too, was long, braiding at the temples and gently curled - and Bard couldn’t help but think about what a good pirate he would make, if the fancy took him.

    Amroth, Elrond, Thranduil and Bard each bowed in turn as Bilbo introduced them, and Thorin bowed in return. He didn’t seem all that kingly to Bard; for the most part, he looked tired and dishevelled, unable to meet anyone’s gaze with much conviction, not that he was at any fault for it, given the current state of his kingdom. He gestured for them all to sit around a low table where tea had been served. Bard awed for a moment at being treated as an equal, for he had never once been asked to sit with lords or kings. It made him see the reality of the position he was in, and of the unfounded influence he might have on the future of this country, and many others. Once upon a time, Bard had aspired to Lieutenancy, or perhaps Captaincy if the years favoured him, but in the short span of six months he had dined with gentry, bedded a Captain, traded with the upper class, freed slaves, conspired with a Queen, fought with a King, and now he was well on his way to sitting down as part of an assembly that, as Thranduil had put it, were creating a moment in history. 

    It was awkward at first, the six of them sipping tea and attempting to come to various conclusions at once, while also trying not to start an argument or speak over one another. Bard barely said anything at all, still wondering why he was there, but listening intently all the same as Thranduil, Elrond and Amroth all explained at intervals the situation they had been placed in, elaborating on Oropher's slave markets and the gems and Queen Nemireth. Thorin seemed impressed, but under no inclination to support them just yet, for he saw little support in return for himself.

    “My people will not follow me until I agree to some kind of alliance,” he was saying. “To them, it matters not who, but that it is done soon.”

    “But the council are pressing for King Oropher?” Thranduil prompted, setting down his teacup. Bard noted how different he suddenly behaved in this new environment; his old, princely habits were brought forward again, ready to negotiate and talk civilly no matter his contempt for another member of the party.

    Thorin nodded. “They are trying to take advantage of my new reign. They think they can get away with undermining me, yet there is nothing I can do about it. The way things are run here are different to how it was when my father was King. They think because I am young I can be moulded to suit their needs.”

    “If you disagree with their methods, what do you really hope to gain from an alliance, as King?” Elrond said. “Because as part of the assembly, we can help you.”

    Thorin raised both his eyebrows at this, evidently astonished. “You would do that?”

    “The point of an alliance is for all parties to benefit from it,” said Amroth sagely. “We may be bastards and traitors and sons of no-one, but we still have a few tricks up our sleeves.”

    “There needs to be a way to overrule the council,” Elrond continued. “Surely your word is law, no matter anyone else’s decision.”

    “It is, but the people respect the Council more than me. That’s why they won’t follow. They aren’t loyal,” Thorin explained sourly.

    “Then perhaps they ought to be reminded as to who exactly is in charge here,” said Elrond, leaning back in his chair pointedly. “If your own people won’t back you, there are many who would take them into their own ranks. If you aren’t careful, you can be usurped and have your country claimed by another king. There are plenty smart enough to try, and succeed.”

    Thorin swore. “You don’t think I know that? That’s why I was so tempted to agree to the alliance with Oropher. He seemed like the best option until my sister flew off the handle and told me hold off the arrangement until she returned... almost empty-handed.”

    Everyone looked at Thranduil expectedly, but the Captain merely shook his head, setting down his cup. “Of all the kings and lords interested in your partnership, Oropher is the one who will truly ruin you. He will drive your family name into the ground.”

    “My sister told me about the Prince who became a Pirate,” Thorin said, his voice low as he observed Thranduil with bright, careful eyes. “I never thought I would one day be discussing the future of my country with Thranduil of Greenwood.”

    Thranduil bristled under these words, but did not cringe. “You need to rally your men and ally yourself with me. Slay the dragon and take back your reputation and kingdom. If you negotiate with any other party, you will not come out on top.”

    “And how do I know you’re not here to usurp me as well?”

    “I’m a pirate,” said Thranduil viciously. “I have some twenty at my command and no more. How will I usurp you with that?”

    “So then what use are you to me? You may work for the Queen, but her army is Oropher’s army... though perhaps a few months later than I would like.”

    “Ah, that’s where I am happy to step in,” Elrond interjected, raising a finger. “As an ally of the Captain’s, _I_ can provide an army in advance of Queen Nemireth’s.”

    “As can I,” said Amroth.

    “You? I know you – less of a Prince than even he is!” He jabbed a finger at Thranduil, who glowered at being so addressed. “How can you offer me more than a twig from your forests?”

    Amroth was positively red with anger, but he kept his tone civil as he said; “As it stands, I cannot, but Lady Galadriel can.”

    “The witch?” said Bilbo, confused. “How can she provide an army?”

    “When we were held prisoner in Greenwood, the King interrogated us to find her whereabouts. I spoke to her last night and she confessed she has been trying to take over Lothlorien for some time now, but my father couldn’t locate her to put a stop to it.” Amroth said, glancing an apologetic look towards Thranduil and Bard for not telling them earlier. “That’s why Oropher wanted to know where she was; he was asking on Amdir’s behalf so as to assist his own ally.”

    Bard heard Thranduil exhaled heavily at these words, looking quite pale. He had not spoken of what had happened in the dungeons in Greenwood, and Bard had not pressed him to, but it seemed much of the mystery was coming to light for all of them.

    “But Galadriel has no claim to the throne,” Bilbo added, still unconvinced.

    “Lothlorien has been at war with itself for many years now,” said Elrond. “The people are weary of Amdir’s rule and have been searching for someone to take his place.”

    "You knew about this?" Thranduil said sharply.

    Elrond tilted his head to convey his misgivings. "I have been hearing rumours for some time, but nothing has confirmd them until now."

    “I thought Lothlorien did not govern by election,” Thorin said.

    “It doesn’t," Amroth replied, "but the people adore Galadriel. With enough support, she can easily conquer my father and take his throne.”

    “But Galadriel is… unbalanced,” Bilbo hesitated to say.

    “Less than you might think; she has the mind of a good ruler and, between her husband and Amroth, has all of Amdir’s army at her command,” Elrond explained.

    “If she has so much power, why hasn’t she taken the country already?” Thorin asked.

    “She was in the midst of doing so when someone –” Amroth shot Thranduil a meaningful look “– gave her up before she could act. In any case, she must be willing to help, otherwise she would not have come here. An alliance with a county such as yours will give her more support and Amdir will have no choice but to step down to avoid bloodshed, which is what she wants; to win the country fairly."

    “Very well,” Thorin said, holding up a hand for silence. “You have me convinced for now, but you need to sway the Council as well. And then there is the situation regarding a certain dragon sitting on all my gold.”

    “We are still working out a way to deal with that,” Elrond assured him. “But the alliance is the immediate issue that needs to be addressed. Without it, we would be nothing but common thieves trying to steal your plunder. If this can be done safely, legally, and benefiting more than one country, why rush?”

    “You know this will ruin us all – physically, and politically – if it goes badly,” Bilbo concluded.

    “Pirates are nothing if not resourceful,” said Thranduil with a wry smile. “We will find a way.”


	25. The Lonely Mountain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> counting and angst and arguing and witches and things. or; me trying to fix any loopholes i probably missed and pushing some forgotten characters into the spotlight. it is VERY hard to deal with so many characters, let me tell you.  
> thanks for reading as always!

Whatever bore Thorin and Thranduil’s initial rivalry was replaced now with a mutual, somewhat reluctant, respect. Though their dislike for one another bristled under the tension and determination to outsmart the assembly, it was safe to say they had each other’s back. Bard was amused greatly by their bickering nonetheless, content to watch as they carried passive insults and jokes across the table during meetings, Thorin glaring and Thranduil simpering, unable to resist a taunt or control his pride. It took four days for their gibed tongues to concede, after Thorin did something that Thranduil would never forget.

    Bard was with Legolas, meandering on the ground floor, trying to preoccupy themselves. The Lonely Mountain was failing to ease their boredom; there were only books to read, and neither Bard nor Legolas were much predisposed to such a thing. Weather permitting, they might have lounged on the beach or walked the neighbouring forests, but as it was, winter was fast approaching, and they were in the coldest place to endure it.

    “I learned numbers and things from my old mistress,” Legolas said, when Bard explained his trouble with reading. “But I can only count to ten.”

    “Ten is enough. If you can count to ten, you can count to any number,” said Bard.

    “That’s rubbish,” said Legolas at once.

    Bard laughed. “No, really. You just add each ten together as you go. Such as… ten fingers, ten toes, so that’s two ten’s.”

    “But I only have nine toes,” Legolas said, kicking forward one of his feet as he walked.

    Bard made a face. “Okay, nine-and-ten fingers and toes. But you understand?”

    “I think so. What if I have to count passed ten ten’s?”

    “Well, ten ten’s in one hundred, ten hundred’s is one thousand, ten thousand’s is ten thousand, and… you get the idea.”

    “How much is a million?” Legolas asked.

    “Ten hundred thousand’s,” said Bard.

    Legolas whistled impressively. “That’s a lot.”

    “What are you two up to?”

    Thranduil found them, shutting a door as he walked over from one of the many courtyards that were scattered around the mountainsides. Bard couldn’t help but admire how warmly and richly he was dressed, his coat turned up at the collar and his face flushed from the cold outside, finally healthy and smiling again. He was carrying a small bunch of flowers.

    “Bard’s teaching me how to count!” said Legolas excitedly.

    “I didn’t know you could count, Bard,” Thranduil teased, the corners of his mouth upturned.

    “Funny,” said Bard dryly. “What are those?”

    Thranduil raised the flowers Bard had indicated, smiling at them fondly. “Last of the season’s roses. It feels like an age has passed since I have had the pleasure of walking gardens, cold though they are over here. It is a wonder anything grows, but look at these.”

    Bard smiled. “I never would have guessed you to enjoy things that come from the earth.”

    “All things come from the earth, Bard – even the oceans. When I lived in Greenwood, all I knew was the forests and trees and rushing river. My heart may belong to the sea, but the earth was my first love.”

    Thranduil took a single rose and handed it to Bard, who grinned and twirled it between his fingers, watching the deep, penetrating red blur like a blood sunrise.

    “Come, Thorin wants to show us something.”

    Thranduil led the way through the maze of halls, Bard trailing behind and gazing at the flower while Legolas practiced counting beside him. It was a curious thing, he thought, to be loved by someone who loved the sea, and the earth and sky and trees. Thranduil himself was a thing of nature – a thing of insurmountable beauty and defiance – and somehow he had found the strength to love Bard as well.

    They had come out into another courtyard, surrounded by rocky mountain and trees, appearing to Bard like a strange, other-worldly grotto, cast in candid, golden light from the setting sun and the last of autumn’s leaves. The rest of the crew was also there, huddled to the side like awkward school children, unsure as to why they had been summoned. Thorin waited until Bard, Thranduil and Legolas had joined them before speaking.

    “I have thought long and hard as to whether or not I ought to show you this, but I think you all deserve to see it,” he said, his expression oddly solemn.

    He gestured for them to follow him. Around a line of trees he led them to a small, fenced off part of the courtyard, scattered in orange and red leaves that caught in the light wind as it found its way into the nook of the mountain.

    It took Bard a moment to see what they were being shown, but his breath hitched in his throat when he did. Gravestones dotted the fenced area, making up what appeared to be a very small cemetery.

    “What is this?” Thranduil said sharply, glaring at Thorin.

    “Three years ago, men came to my shore seeking stolen treasure, but not all of them left.”

    Bard saw, as if witnessing a dream, that the number of graves matched exactly the number of crew members Thranduil had lost during the siege that had greeted him on the first voyage to Erebor, when the gems had still been in the vaults, easily accessed if it had not been for the fleet that protected them from the shore.

    “You – you buried them?” Thranduil said, his eyes unblinking, but his fist tight around the roses in his hand, the thorns no doubt digging into his palm.

    Thorin looked puzzled. “What else was I to do? Toss them to the sea? There are no pirates here, Captain, only people.”

    Bard kept his distance, as did some others, knowing better than to intrude upon those whose friends were here, in the dirt and beneath the trees, a part of the earth under the sun again. There were some things even Bard could not understand – some losses he could not bear for Thranduil, or anyone else.

    The graves were scattered and, in many cases, poorly distributed, bearing only simple headstones engraved neatly with names and dates. Thranduil and the others were quiet as they drifted, ghost-like, about the tombstones, reading the names and whispering to one another. Bard watched Thranduil pause at one headstone in particular, resting his hand upon it as he lowered himself to its height, brushing the fallen leaves to read the inscription.

    The silence was eventually broken by Glorfindel, who had taken pause at a grave near the back and then sunk to his knees. His scream was bloody and wrecked, carried onto the wind and out to sea for the entire world to hear. The sound of it made Bard shiver and Legolas’ grip tighten around his arm.

    Nimrodel ran to Glorfindel, and not a moment too soon. Distressed beyond reason, he had started to claw at the dirt and the patches of grass, trying to dig up the grave, trying to bury himself too.

    “Glorfindel, don’t–” Bard heard Nimrodel say, but the rest of her words were drowned by Glorfindel’s cries. He sounded beyond saving; beyond recompense for his grief.

    Nimrodel soon yielded to her own despair. Her arms wrapped around Glorfindel’s head, she wept into his hair, rocking them both back and forth. Even Galion, who had always been so grounded in his emotions, never letting anyone see passed his grin and bright eyes, was stock-still and staring at the scene before him, his hands white-knuckled fists. Lethuin was on his knees as well, in front of an empty patch of earth where one more grave was supposed to be, but wasn't, and probably never would be.

    Bard had seen enough. He turned away and went back inside.

 

    He did not see Thranduil for quite some time after that, save for spotting him with Glorfindel and the others in a parlour upstairs, whispering, their eyes shadows and their shoulders heavy. Bard did not disturb them. He went instead outside the palace, walking aimlessly until he found himself on a beach, if a beach was what it could be called. Some miles from the docks where they had weighed anchor, it was a dark, bleak-looking bay with more dirt and rocks than sand. It was flanked to the right by a dark forest and it seemed not to belong to the rest of the country; it was like an island all on its own, windy and cold, with the waves splashing Bard’s face with sea spray.

    He wandered the shore, throwing rocks into the sea and thinking. He realised, then, how long it had been since he had been alone. Six months had passed since he had traded his life as a sailor for that of a pirate, and not once had he been by himself, always drifting after Thranduil or Glorfindel, or pulled along in the wake of another adventure or another meal or another fight. Alone, he felt vulnerable and lost, unable to know what was real and what was a dream, or if he was even alive at all.

    But the graves in the courtyard made Bard very aware of his own mortality; they reminded him of the price he would have to pay, for he had not forgotten Galadriel’s prophecy.

    When Thranduil joined him, the sun was setting. The clouds burst into red and gold and purple, swept into shapes like fire by the wind and howling sea. Bard watched Thranduil climbing down the sand dunes, his cloak flapping with his hair in the wind, like it did when they were on board the ship.

    “I came to find you for dinner,” he said, jogging over the Bard at the shoreline. “Why did you run off?”

    “I didn’t run off,” said Bard indignantly.

    Thranduil gave a half-smile, putting a hand on Bard’s shoulder sympathetically. “You are entitled to be sad with the rest of the company. You don’t have to be alone.”

    “I know, but it wasn’t about me,” Bard said.

    “It’s about us all, and that includes you,” said Thranduil. His arm fell and his squeezed Bard’s hand. Bard squeezed it in return, smiling.

    “I don’t fancy that mountain,” he said, turning his back to it and facing the water again. “I miss the sea.”

    “As do I,” Thranduil agreed. He closed his eyes against the wind, inhaling the salty air. “Beautiful, endless, and free.”

    “Just like you,” said Bard.

    “Just like us.”

 

    “I thought the dragon was on an entirely different island! Do you mean to tell me we’re sitting on top of him?”

    Bard forced Thranduil back in his seat in the drawing room (which was less of a drawing room than a war room with exquisite furniture and a piano), though was unable to prevent him glowering at Thorin from across the table, his fists curled about the arms of his chair.

    “Not on top of him!” Thorin hastened to explain, his arms flailing in protest. “He was moved here, in the centre of the country.”

    He indicated on the map a small mountain, surrounded by forestation. Bard peered down at it, judging the distance between it and the palace, which appeared to be many miles. The Lonely Mountain clung close to the coast, but Thorin was pointing far away from it. How they had _moved_ a dragon there, Bard did not want to know.

    “But I thought that was a volcano,” piped up Bilbo, fixing Thorin with a meaningful look, evidently upset that he had not been trusted with the truth. He was holding a sharp plotting compass and Thorin eyed it warily, withdrawing his face several inches from Bilbo before shrugging defensively.

     “You did not hear that from me. The townsfolk say it because of the smoke that rises from the tip.”

    “What kind of volcano _smokes?_ ” Thranduil scoffed, getting to his feet again to linger over the map, both hands on the table.

    “People will tell themselves anything if it helps them sleep, though I really don’t see how a semi-active volcano is any better than a fire-breathing dragon.”

    Thorin shook his head dismally, glancing at the map on the table again, which was littered with empty goblets and cups of tea, spyglasses, compasses, and one very sleepy white cat, who was dosing peacefully next to a jug of wine. Bard scratched Asfaloth behind the ear as he went to retrieve the jug, pouring himself another goblet, because this ‘quick meeting’ had somehow let three hours slip by and he was ready to retire, which he believed held true for the others as well. They were all of them quite liquored by this point and had resorted to yelling at each other from across the room.

    Thorin jabbed his finger at the map again. “Smaug is in that mountain! And so is my gold.”

    “It is not _your_ gold,” spoke up Elrond, raising a reproachful eyebrow.

    “The hell it isn’t!” Thorin exclaimed. “The dirty snake kept asking me for more, or else he’d ransack the city! Half the treasure in that mountain is mine, and now he’s taken it for himself.”

    “I’m surprised you haven’t given him quarters in here at the effort you have undergone to make him comfortable,” said Bard from over the top of his goblet. “He’s playing you for a fool.”

    “Of that I do not need reminding.” Thorin rumbled, running a hand through his hair, looking beside himself. Next to him, Bilbo was scratching the end of his nose with the compass, his eyes half-closed with lethargy and wine. “I only did as I thought I must, by my father’s law. None of us ever could have known it would get so out of hand.”

    “We need to neutralise the threat,” said Amroth, standing and speaking for the first time since Thranduil had shouted, having been lounging on a sofa, absorbed in a number of papers that had gone over Bard’s head when he’d tried to read them. “But killing a dragon is no simple matter. We could send an army in there and still lose.”

    “Believe me, we’ve tried,” said Thorin bitterly.

    “What?” said Elrond, his tone much sharper now.

    “Why do you think my men will not follow me? Why do you think I am so desperate for aid? I sent a hundred good soldiers into that mountain, and none of them made it out! I as good as fed the beast as well as gave him my gold!”

    Thranduil went very pale at these words and reached for his goblet, disappearing behind it. Bard spoke up, clearing his throat nervously. “What about the reports we have? We were not looking for it at the time, but surely the dragon has a weak spot? Where are the accounts?”

    “Still on board the ship,” said Thranduil, lowering his suddenly empty cup, his cheeks faintly pink.

    “We ought to read through them again, find out everything we can.”

    “I have those accounts memorised. The dragon has no weakness.”

    “Then how are we supposed to kill it?” said Amroth, tossing the papers aside on the table in frustration. “Alliances and armies are damned to the depths if we can’t actually get the treasure back.”

    “Nothing can live indefinitely,” said Thranduil. “Who else has encountered the dragon – or any dragon, for that matter – that can tell us how to slay one?”

    Elrond seemed to consider this harder than anyone else, tapping a ringed finger around the rim of this goblet and making it sing in the gathering silence. Bard sat down in his seat, stroking Asfaloth absently, daring even to succumb to the wine which, accompanied by the fire on his back, had him warm and dazed and on the edge of sleep.

    “Galadriel might know.”

    Bard started at Elrond’s words, but Thranduil rolled his eyes. “We have already asked her and she has given us less than nothing.”

    “We simply did not ask the right questions,” Amroth interjected.

    Thranduil bristled, his hair practically standing on end. “I am tired of trusting that sea witch! She has brought me nothing but grief.”

    Bard caught Thranduil’s eye at these words, and felt a jab of unfounded guilt, wishing there was something he could do to ease Thranduil’s heartache. They had not spoken of Galadriel’s prophecy since before arriving in Dorwinion and, if Bard was honest with himself, it was beginning at last to plague him. Perhaps it was the unexpected arrival of the witch that forced him so unpleasantly to remember, or perhaps because it felt like they were finally near the journey’s end, but the gnawing unease in Bard’s stomach was festering. He knew, without question, that he would give his life for Thranduil if there was no other way, even though it terrified him, even though it broke his heart.

    “You cannot blame her for being the way she is, Thranduil,” Elrond was saying. “You know how witches are, and you know how she is. It’s our own fault for being indirect with her in the first place.”

    “What could she know, anyway? She doesn’t look like someone who’s come face-to-face with a dragon.” Thranduil was reaching for the wine jug again, groping in the dim while he frowned at Elrond. Bard very discreetly took the jug from the table and put it on the floor where Thranduil could not get it.

    “You’d be surprised,” said Amroth, biting back a smirk at Bard. “She’s older than she looks.”

    “I always wondered about that,” Bard cut in innocently, turning to Elrond. “You said she is Celebrían’s mother… that would make her at least sixty, but she looks as young as me.”

    “Sixty?” Elrond repeated, smirking. “Bard, she’s almost five hundred.”

    Bard’s jaw dropped. “What? But how?”

    “She’s a witch, haven’t we been saying?” quipped Amroth.

    “But then Celebrían…”

    Elrond smiled knowingly, retrieving a compass from the table and adjusting it to the key on the map. “My wife is human as you or me. Genes like Galadriel’s can only be passed down with the help of another magical being, and Celeborn is just an ordinary man. A good one, but refreshingly ordinary.”

    “Can we stay on topic, please?” said Thorin,

    “We’ve been at this for hours,” Amroth groaned, slumping back on the sofa in resignation. “I think we ought to call it a night.”

    “I agree,” said Bilbo. He retrieved his coat from the back of a chair and, as if this finalised the meeting, everyone else got to their feet and started collecting books and maps and scrolls.

    Bard heaved drunkenly out of his chair and he and Thranduil started the long ascent to their bed chamber. Thranduil was quiet for the entirety of the climb upstairs and continued to say nothing as he undressed and got into bed, his hair spilling out onto the pillow, his eyes closed against the moonlight. The roses he had cut from the garden sat in a vase of water on the windowsill.

    Bard crawled into the bed as well, propping himself up on his good elbow and watching Thranduil. He opted to be more talkative after meetings and discussions, whether he kept up a steady tangent concerning what had been brought up, or complained about Thorin. But tonight he was silent and it unnerved Bard.

    “What are you thinking about?” he asked.

    Thranduil open his eyes and turned to Bard, studying his face, as though he could not see it enough in his lifetime.

    “I’m just thinking about the dragon,” he said, and Bard knew he was lying. Thranduil reached out a hand and his fingers curled about the key around Bard’s neck, his eyes travelling. “Maybe there is something in the accounts that we missed. We ought to go to the ship tomorrow and retrieve my chest.”

    “ _Your_ chest,” said Bard, humming fondly at the memory of standing up to Thranduil, a defiant young sailor with more courage than he knew what to do with. “You never did say if it was actually yours.”

    “It’s my mother’s,” said Thranduil at once, his hand now pressed to the gap of Bard’s shirt, where his skin and bandages were exposed. “She used to keep all sorts of pretty things inside it; diamonds and opals and alexandrite and pearls, strung into necklaces and fashioned into rings. It was her treasure chest. You could bury your hands into it and uncover a rainbow; an entire world.”

    “What happened to it all?” Bard breathed.

    “I don’t know,” Thranduil murmured, dropping his hand. “When I was a child, I went looking for the chest in my mother’s room, only to find it gone. I found out much later that it was far away, being used to hold a more important treasure. When I stole it from your ship, I knew there was only parchment inside, but opening it… I half expected to see all those gems again.”

    “Did she keep her white gems in there too?” Bard asked, glancing down at the stone around Thranduil’s neck, which shone in the moonlight – no, shone _like_ the moonlight.

    “They had been taken away from her long before I was even born. She managed to keep a few, hidden as jewellery or as part of her gowns, but I have never seen them properly, as a unit. They are meant to be together, always. Their true beauty is in solidarity, not solitude.” Thranduil examined his pendant curiously, turning it in his fingers to see the light better. “Many people have debated they are merely some form of opal or moonstone or quartz, but you can tell just by the shine that it’s something else entirely.”

    “Starlight, isn’t that right?”

    Thranduil smiled briefly. “I like to think so. It is said the gems shine more if kept near positive energy; good feelings and things.” Thranduil set the gem on his chest again, where it hummed with a soft, white light, enough to see in the dark with. “I have never seen it quite so bright.”

    Bard smiled and brought himself down to rest on the pillow, falling asleep to the thought of hundreds of colours at his fingertips.

 

    He and Thranduil left early the next morning, taking Legolas, Nimrodel, Tauriel, and Meludir with them to the ship. Thorin offered them horses to make the journey faster, but they all refused, blanching at the thought of riding when it was bad enough to walk on foot.

    “Captain, I have a question,” Meludir said as they meandered out of the vale towards the shore, where the _Eryn Lasgalen_ bobbed at the docks, now accompanied by the _Durin’s Bane_ , which had made port two days previously. The two vessels knocked against each other like old friends.

    “This will be good,” said Thranduil, rolling his eyes good-naturedly.

    “How come we’re still after the gems? I mean, if the King has ‘em, doesn’t that mean this whole voyage is pointless?”

    “The King needs _all_ of the gems if he wants to win this war,” Thranduil said patiently. “Sticking a big one in a crown changes nothing.”

    “Then what did he hope to achieve by showing it to you?” asked Nimrodel.

    “It was just a threat, because he wants the gems for himself now.”

    “I think he’s a bit dim,” said Meludir.

    “Not entirely. But he is a military man, so politics are not his forte, and that is where we are at an advantage,” said Thranduil, helping Legolas down from a large rock as he spoke.

    “So how much longer are we staying here for?” it was Tauriel who spoke, catching up after lagging behind to pick flowers from the fissures between rocks. She tucked them into her belt happily.

    “Well, the assembly meets at the end of next week, and then we have to devise a plan to get into the mountain. It’s difficult to say exactly how long, but with luck on our side we’ll be gone before winter settles in.”

    Nimrodel sighed wistfully, hitching up her breaches. “How strange it is that this is almost over. Another month and we won’t be pirates anymore.”

    At this, Bard unconsciously reached up to touch the brand on his neck, mapping out the letter with his fingers. It was only two inches long, but swollen and scabbed as it still was, it felt much bigger to touch. Bard caught Tauriel watching him and quickly dropped his hand, staring down at his feet as they awkwardly navigated the rocky, uneven ground. He was glad that, out of those who had been captured by the King, she had been the one to escape without a brand. He could still feel the white hot pain, deadening his nerves, vibrating through his skull. He would not wish it on anyone, especially for a second time.

    Boarding the ship was like coming home again. Bard ran his hand over the smooth, sea-worn railing, breathing in the damp wood and rope coils, and gazing up to the foreyards were the rigging crossed and criss-crossed over the sky, under the clouds, swaying gently in the breeze. He remembered seeing the ship on the horizon for the first time, his stomach quelling with bad judgment; with fear and loathing. Never in his wildest dreams did he believe he would one day come to miss its creaking decks or its patched and weathered sails or the beautiful woman at the bow, singing to the sea as it lapped the hull beneath her.

    Tauriel flitted across the deck, her hair like a bolt of silk in the wind. She swung around the main mast and caught herself on the rigging, dangling upside-down and laughing. Meludir ran after her, jumping high and starting to climb up to the crow’s nest. She grabbed his ankle as he ascended and he kicked at her playfully.

    “They’re like children in a toy shop,” said Nimrodel, grinning.

    “Take whatever you can carry,” said Thranduil, boarding the ship last. “And if anyone finds my hat, I will be forever in their debt.”

    He wandered absently to his cabin, sweeping the ship with his eyes, as if examining it. Under the stairs to the quarterdeck he found an old rum bottle and, upturning it, emptied it of a key, which he fitted into the lock of the cabin door.

    “You don’t keep the key with you?” Bard commented, walking over.

    “I would lose it,” said Thranduil simply.

    “But you have never lost this one,” said Bard, lifting the key from beneath his shirt.

    “I can only keep so many things around my neck before it becomes bothersome,” Thranduil explained, shouldering open the cabin door. “But I have lost that key more times than I can count. Had to dive down into the ocean for it once, damned thing.”

    “So I’m keeping it from getting lost as well, am I?” Bard simpered.

    “Well it is quite fetching around that pretty neck of yours,” said Thranduil, flashing a grin of his own.

    It was eerily dark and quiet inside the cabin, the only source of light coming from the now open door. The curtains were shut over the back windows and the thin layer of dust that had settled on the furniture and floor drifted into the air as Bard and Thranduil moved around, disturbing the peace.

    The chest was on the floor by the table, where Thranduil had always left it. Papers and books were spilled out of it, scattering the floor from the many hours he had spent reading and re-reading letters and accounts. He bent down to sweep them up, digging out another key from inside the chest and using it to lock it.

    “I just had a thought,” said Bard, wandering over to the bed and sitting down on it. He had almost forgotten the musty, faintly salty smell of the sheets and coming back to it made his heart surge with a comforting kind of nostalgia. “If the gems are in a chest, and the chest needs a key, and I have the key, how is the King supposed to get them, since you refused to help him?”

    “The lock can be broken with enough effort,” Thranduil said from the other room.

    “Doesn’t that pose a risk to the gems?”

    Bard heard Thranduil laugh for a moment before saying. “Gems of starlight are not so easily damaged by anything a man has made. They are practically indestructible.”

    Bard sighed and got up from the bed, returning to Thranduil in the fore half of the cabin where he had lifted the chest of documents onto the table and was now opening a cupboard against the wall.

    “Then what’s the point of protecting the key?” Bard said.

    Thranduil turned and fixed Bard with a meaningful look, his eyes searching, as though unsure as to which answer to give.

    “Sentiment, I suppose, and to have the upper hand,” he finally said.

    Bard reached up to clasp the key, frowning. It had put him in quite a fix when he had been caught snooping in the Greenwood armoury during the rescue. While getting caught had been part of the plan, being branded a pirate hadn’t, and upon seeing the key around his neck, the King had recognised Bard for what he was at once, and marked him thusly – forever.

    But it wasn’t Thranduil’s fault, Bard reminded himself firmly. He himself should have left the key on board the ship before going to rescue the others. But he had grown accustomed to having it against his chest, humming with the warmth of his skin, keeping him connected to Thranduil in the foolishly sentimental way he had just explained. Perhaps that was the real reason he had given it to Bard; to keep them together, no matter what happened. Bard never found out of this was true, but he always believed it nonetheless, even after he stopped wearing it.

    After feeling into every nook and cranny of the cabin for anything they needed, Bard and Thranduil returned to the deck where the others were hoisting rucksacks over their shoulders or hitching crates into their arms. Legolas had found Thranduil’s hat and set it proudly on his head, as though it were a crown, and in many ways Bard thought it was exactly that. Thranduil smoothed out the feather, making Bard laugh.

    “Don’t tease, dear,” he said pompously. “The High Priestess of Lindon gave me this hat.”

    But Bard only laughed harder.

    “Look over there!”

    They were just leaving when Meludir suddenly cried out. They turned, squinting towards the horizon at a ship sailing towards them, the Greenwood colours whipping in the wind.


	26. Prophecy and Prediction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning for character death and hospital scene. Thanks again for reading!

“Weigh anchor! All hands to stations!”

    The rush of adrenaline had Bard breathless as he shouted orders, fastening his belt as best he could with his bad shoulder. Watching everyone scurry about the deck brought back the thrill of the sea and its liberations; its burning, yearning terror. The rest of the crew had responded to their Captain’s call with surprising haste, even mounting horses to make the journey to the docks that much faster. They were more than soldiers or sailors or pirates aboard the _Eryn Lasgalen_ ; they were unified by her, and for her.

    “Amroth, Haldir, man the capstan. Elros, you as well,” Bard called down. “Nimrodel, have those cannons ready.”

    “I want full canvas!” Thranduil barked at the same time, running up the quarterdeck stairs to man the wheel. “Trim the sails and gather way. We give no quarter; I want to see that wretched boat at the bottom of the sea.”

    The _Eryn Lasgalen_ lurched as the wind caught its sails, the rigging and masts creaking with the strain of the sea, accompanied now by the thunking of the capstan below deck. Glancing behind him, Bard could see the _Durin’s Bane_ at their rudder, gathering speed to join the fray. With Dís hauling fresh supplies, she was prepared to give every cannon to Thranduil’s cause, and to protect her country. Bard could see her crew swinging up in the foreyards, trimming sails, and securing rigging and cannons.

    “You don’t think they followed us?” Bard asked Thranduil, loading his pistol without thinking about it, for it had become such a natural habit.

    Thranduil spun the wheel with a flourish to turn the ship to starboard, directing it head-on to the other vessel.

    “They can’t have,” he said. “If we were followed, they would have arrived sooner.”

    “Perhaps they were buying time, lingering off-shore?”

    “But we didn’t see them!” Thranduil spat. He was in a towering rage, his eyes bright and fixed on the ship ahead, which was less than five miles away.

    “Captain, ship ahoy! Another one!” Meludir bellowed from the crow’s nest.

    “What?”

    In search of an answer, Bard snatched up a spyglass from the table and peered through it. There was, indeed, another ship close behind the first, much bigger and faster. It appeared to be chasing them.

    “They’re surrendering!”

    Bard watched in astonishment as the Greenwood flag on the first ship was reeled down, disappearing from view as a sign of surrender. He scanned the vessel desperately, trying to see who was on board, but it was still too far to tell.

    “Someone is fleeing Greenwood,” he murmured.

    “And they’ve brought the King’s fucking Navy with them,” Thranduil snarled. “Man the bow cannons!”

    Bard looked down to see Nimrodel pelt across the deck to the bow. Rúmil, Orophin and Lethuin were hot on her heels, rolling barrels of gunpowder.

    Far across the water, the smaller Greenwood ship was struggling to outrun its pursuer. Whomever was sailing her was inexperienced, unable to trim the sails fast enough or, it seemed, understand what a capstan was for.

    “Can you see who it is yet?” Thranduil asked. They had already covered a mile from the shore and their speed was gathering in the deeper water, streamlining with the wind.

    Bard put the telescope to his eye again, observing the other vessel. He could see the people on board now, running around in distress and fear. And there, he spotted her, a figure in white, waving her arms at the bowsprit.

    Bard lowered the telescope. “It’s the Queen,” he said.

    “Why am I not surprised?” Thranduil hissed, striking the helm with the palm of his hand in frustration. “Leave the fore ship unharmed! Prepare to broadside! This is going to get ugly.”

    Nimrodel, still loading cannons at the bow, stomped furiously back the cannons on the port, screaming orders at anyone who was on hand, which was a startled Glorfindel, Elladan, Elrohir, and Tauriel. At her word, the twins disappeared below deck to load the rest of the cannons while Tauriel and Glorfindel assisted in manning the rest.

    The first ship was close now, the two bowsprit yards passing each other in the air like old acquaintances. Bard could see Queen Nemireth dashing up to the quarterdeck, watching her purser through a spyglass of her own, her white hair aloft in the wind.

    “We’ll be upon them soon,” Thranduil said, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the larger ship. “Haldir! Put the Queen’s men in order; get them out of here.”

    On the deck, Haldir gave a quick salute and, without preamble, cut a line and wound the rope around his wrists. He did a great running start and then flung himself off the port side. The rope seized on the mast and he swung perfectly onto the neighbouring vessel, landing neatly on his feet. He bowed quickly to the Queen, and then proceeded to bark orders at everyone, pointing to the capstan and rigging.

    “Cannons ready to fire, Captain!” Nimrodel cried from below.

    “Man your weapons!”

    The Greenwood ship was larger than both the _Eryn Lasgalen_ and the _Durin’s Bane_ , but two against one was still an advantage. Bard ran across the quarterdeck and signalled Dís to take the enemy’s port side. They were already loading the cannons, weapons in hand. They both passed the Queen waving energetically to her son, but Thranduil ignored her stonily. Bard did not blame him for his iciness; she had brought the enemy to a place where they were supposed to be safe; she had put everyone in danger.

    Wincing, Bard took his arm out of his sling, rolling his shoulder experimentally. Two weeks had healed the flesh wound, but it was still very sore. However, there was no helping it now, for he needed both arms to fight with.

    “Bard, get Legolas below deck,” Thranduil said sharply.

    Bard’s heart gave a jolt of fear. He had forgotten about Legolas in the confusion. He searched the ship swiftly, looking for its smallest member. Legolas was running after Elladan and Elrohir, his arms full of cannonballs. Bard stumbled down the stairs after him and grabbed him by the arm, sending the cannonballs thudding to the deck one by one.

    “A fight is no place for a child,” he said.

    “But I can help!” Legolas insisted, tugging uselessly as Bard dragged him below deck.

    “Yes, by going down to the hold and finding somewhere to hide. Do not come out until someone fetches you, do you understand me?”

    “I’m not going to hide while everyone else fights!” Legolas exclaimed, his eyes full of defiant fury, and reminding Bard so strongly of Thranduil.

    “The hell you aren’t. Either you’re down there of your own volition or I’ll chain you to the bilge pump.”

    Legolas wrenched his arm free of Bard’s grip and stormed down the stairs, swearing and cursing. All the while, the second Greenwood ship drew closer and closer, its masts and sails looming over them like a mean ghost.

    “Bard! I need you to man a cannon below,” Nimrodel cried.

    Bard scrambled down the stairs after Legolas at once and ran to the only unoccupied cannon, next to Lindir.

    “You’re going to injure your shoulder flailing about like that,” he said crossly.

    “Now is really not the time, Lindir,” Bard said.

    He waited for the order, hovering fire over the wick of the cannon, his heart beating a stampede of fear. He was no longer excited now, just scared. They were neck-and-neck with the other ship now – he could see the smooth panels of their starboard side, which was lined with cannons aimed for the _Eryn Lasgalen_.

    “Fire!”

    Bard lit the wick of his cannon, covering his ears just in time for it to explode at his knees. At the same moment, wood splintered to his right and a crack like a gunshot stung the air as a hole was blown right through the ship. He bowed his head against the impact, letting his arms accept the lacerations from the wood chips. Something very big and very heavy collided with the ship above, making it tremble on the water.

    It took Bard a while to hear the fighting – swords clashing, pistols firing. He scrambled to his feet, groping for his sword, half-dazed. The _Eryn Lasgalen_ was dotted with holes, but after a quick sweep with his eyes, he saw that no one was badly hurt. He helped Lindir to his feet and then pelted upstairs.

    The sun was suddenly overbright and the fighting was too loud. Bard saw that it had been the main mast that had caused the ship to shake, for it had been hit with a cannonball and toppled to the quarterdeck, destroying the helm. The crow’s nest lay in splinters with the balustrade. Thranduil was there, getting up gingerly, clutching his head. Bard was about to go to him when a soldier blocked his path, sword cutting and slicing through the air. Bard met it with his own. He parried once, twice, and then gutted the soldier, twisting his blade through his stomach until he dropped to the deck with convulsions.

    Thranduil was running down the stairs now, his sword driving into the first soldier in his way, slicing him open and smattering his shirt with blood; that cruel red colour Bard loved to see him in.

    The sailors were endless; Bard counted them at least three to one pirate, and that was without seeing what Dís and the others were dealing with. But he persevered, striking down everyone he could, though they proved to be better skilled than any of the sailors he had encountered before. He saw by their badges that they were elite sailors; a company Bard had once yearned to be a part of, for they were trained to be the best and brightest of the Navy.

    They overwhelmed the pirates, forcing them back against the starboard side, trying desperately to find an advantage. Bard pulled out his pistol, aiming it for heads and missing three out of six. To his left, Tauriel was being dragged away to the Greenwood ship, kicking and lashing out and screaming, her daggers left abandoned on the deck. Glorfindel was cutting through the soldiers to get to her, his golden hair a burst of blood orange. By the forecastle, Nimrodel was weeping over a body that Bard didn’t need to see to know whose it was. Lethuin was prising her away from Mithrellas, trying to get her out of the line of fire coming from the enemy ship where a dozen soldiers had their muskets over the railing, pointing down to the pirates like they were pigs for slaughter.

    They were losing. Reality felt distorted at the edges. Every blow and parry was only instinct to Bard; all he could really see was the devastation and chaos, ruining him. The sailor before him was fierce and relentless and soon Bard’s weapon was knocked out of his grip. The sailor aimed for his stomach. Bard grabbed the blade with his hand, gritting his teeth as his shoulder screamed in protest and he felt each layer of skin in his palm splitting open, encompassing the already bloody steel. With his other hand he added pressure against the other man, trying to push him away. The pain in his hand was so focused that he did not noticed the tip of the sword inching into his body.

    Without warning, someone collided with the sailor. He fell, and Bard stumbled, gasping for breath, his head spinning. He tripped over the bodies strewn on the deck, unable to see who was sailor and who was friend. He clutched a hand to his stomach, wondering why it hurt so much. To his horror felt warm, wet blood staining his shirt. He looked down and saw red and red and red.  

    “Bard, stay with me.” It was Thranduil. Thranduil, with his hair like moonlight and his eyes like fire stars, who loved the sea and sky and Bard too. “Hold on… you know I can’t lose you.”

    The last thing Bard was aware of was Thranduil setting him against the side of the ship and meeting his sword with another, his hair silver and red, his eyes bringing an ocean of hate.

   

    If there was only one mercy to be had from a death that day, it was being able to actually say goodbye. The coffin was marble, and it bore the weight of a hundred seas. It was lowered into the ground with the others and nobody cried, for death was inevitable now. It did not make bargains or trade one life for another; death was a taker, and it would take them all in the end.

    The first snow of the year came to the Lonely Mountain that day. White, blinding, ghost-like, it drifting into hair and hats and black coats, blanketing the ground and the headstones of the graves. The last to leave were Rúmil and Haldir, and for the days that followed Bard rarely saw them parted from their brother’s grave, despite the cold and despite the snow. They mourned quietly, but unshakably, unable to say a final farewell.

    They were all of them ruined, trapped somehow in their grief, swallowed by the emptiness and by their own injuries, which felt as though would never heal, not really.

    While most of the pirates and Dís’ crew had their inflictions taken care of quickly, several fighters were in the infirmary for many days, thankful only that they too had not died. It was on the ground floor, tucked quietly in the west wing of the mountain. From its windows, the graves of their fallen friends was visible, and somehow it was peaceful. Bard found himself staring for hours at a time, his hand nursing his stab-wound, and his head swimming in the colours of winter as he watched the snow gradually swallow up the gravestones.

    In his company were Elros, Erestor, Tauriel, Glorfindel and, by the graces of the gods, Mithrellas, who had survived her head injury after waking nearly twelve hours after the conflict. Bard thought it was a miracle that more of them had not died, but Haldir had turned the Queen’s ship around and taken charge of the fight. She had brought good soldiers with her, and only two of them had been injured in the skirmish. They had saved Thranduil’s crew, under Haldir’s loyalty, and it was Haldir who paid the price for it anyway.

    During his time in the infirmary, Bard barely saw Thranduil. He was caught up constantly by his mother, swept off to the war room to oversee the plans she had devised. When Bard did see him, Thranduil was irritable and complained of the Queen, not that anyone blamed him.

    “She has overrun the palace,” he said sourly one evening as he sat with the others on a rug by the fire in the infirmary. The orange flames cast long, eerie shadows over the white marble. Bard was having his palm redressed and bandaged by Lindir, listening quietly, his knee touching Thranduil’s knee, and Legolas in front of them teasing Asfaloth with a feather quill. “She cannot simply take over and change everything. We had a good, solid plan and she is jeopardizing it.”

    “How?” said Bard, wincing as Lindir tied the fresh bandage and took the bowl and dirty cloth away.

    “She wants to be the representative instead of me.”

    “But what does that matter?” asked Tauriel, coming over with tray of steaming cups and handing them around. Physically, she did not look badly hurt, sporting only a few scrapes and bruises, but Bard had seen the slash on her back, deep and long, running from her hip to her shoulder and causing her great pain and difficulty moving. She gasped as she bent slightly to set the tray down on a table, the flush in her cheeks vanishing at once.

    “It matters because the situation changes if she presents herself as a lone monarch. She will be labelled a heretic before she can succeed the throne.” Thranduil sipped his tea, pursing his lips over the porcelain. “She’s turning this into a war.”

    “Isn’t it already?” said Nimrodel. She was nearest the fire, Mithrellas asleep on her lap.

    “Not technically,” piped up Elros, who was particular to matters concerning the Queen. He had been out of her inner circle for too long and missed being at the centre of her schemes and theatrics. “For now, we’re at civil unrest. It is a rebellion more than it is a war, but the Queen is risking everyone’s neck by exposing herself like this. Never mind that she is the Queen and of royal blood, when people find out what she’s been doing, they will crucify her.”

    “But they’re going to find out no matter what,” Nimrodel pointed out.

    “Yes, but the initial plan was for Thranduil to _relinquish_ his crown to her. That is entirely different to snatching the throne out from under him and the King. No one will respect her for it and there will be riots before her recoronation is even over. Then, before you know it, other Kings will be out for her crown, or her blood, or both. Bet you thirty silvers Amdir will have an armada at her shores before winter solstice.”

    “But I thought the gems gave her unquestionable authority to rule,” said Bard.

    “They do, but that does not mean people won’t protest, or that she cannot be conquered. The gems only influence council and election. They are worth nary a silver to the people,” said Thranduil.

    “And it doesn’t help that they’re supposed to be some kind of legend out of time,” Glorfindel added, tugging Erestor’s blanket over his knees. “The Queen’s bloodline have kept them hushed up for centuries – paranoid, you see, about having them stolen – so anyone who actually remembers the gems and their power is long decomposed.”

    “This is getting more preposterous by the day,” said Nimrodel abruptly, so angry now that her hair bristled and crackled like the fire. “What did we come all this way for? What are we supposed to achieve by slaying a fucking dragon and nicking some useless gems? I’m sick of the way she treats us. We are not disposable.”

    Bard had never seen Nimrodel speak ill of her Queen, having always bequeathed her respect and unwavering love. Yet Nimrodel spoke a truth they had all denied – one they could no longer leave to shadow and doubt.

    “We have to see this through,” Thranduil said without any real conviction. “I will try and convince her to stick to the first plan; perhaps she is simply overexcited about being the centre of attention again.”

    Thranduil stayed in the infirmary with Bard that night. He left his clothes and boots on the floor and climbed into the bed, even though it was far too small for two people. Bard had been halfway to sleep already, his dream pooled in the moonlight from the graveyard outside. Thranduil pressed soft kisses to his neck, waking him.

    “What is it?” he murmured.

    “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

    Bard turned awkwardly in the bed, lying on his back because his shoulder hurt too much to face Thranduil completely. Thranduil’s hands wandered, dancing over Bard’s scars and wounds and troubles. He himself had not fared well after the fight; his eye was blotched and bruised and his forearm was bandaged, having sustained a deep cut on it.

    His fingers came to rest on the brand on Bard’s neck, mapping out the letter there.

    “I have ruined you,” he whispered.

    Bard shook his head. “You can only ruin me by leaving me. Until then, my life and heart are yours.”

    “Why would you sacrifice so much for me?”

    Bard smiled faintly, raising his good arm to frame Thranduil’s face, tucking his gossamer hair behind an ear. “Because I was given a choice, and I chose you, just as I will always choose you, for the rest of my life.”

 

    It had stopped snowing on the fourth day. The Lonely Mountain was crystallised in the pale sun, its peak ignited like a candle in the dawn. Bard dressed and ate a small breakfast before leaving the infirmary, sneaking out while the head nurse was tending to Mithrellas.

    Poor Mithrellas, Bard thought as he tiptoed down the wide, stone corridor. The bullet had missed her brain by millimetres, but it had had consequences all the same. She lost all memory of the fight and, when she spoke, her words were slurred and stammering. The nurse explained she would be this way for the rest of her life, though it was a small price to pay considered she was still around to live that life. Nimrodel had been beside herself the entire time Mithrellas had been unconscious, convinced of her death, for it had been such a dark time.

    It still was a dark time, really, for all of them, and it was hard to find the light.

    Bard wandered out of the palace, sick as he was of its cold stone pillars and marble floors, which made him think only of blood and loss; of poor Feren, left by the cracked stairs across the sea, and Orophin in the ground, encompassed by dirt.

    The gardens were quiet, as if the snow had shut out all the sound in the world, submerging it in stillness and in gentleness. Bard had never seen snow quite like this before. He had spent all his life on Greenwood’s coasts, where it only rained. The snow crunched beneath his boots, his footsteps leaving prints, following him to a thicket of trees that, from what he could see, trailed down the mountainside and out into the country. Pulling his cloak tight around his shoulders, he walked on, breathing in the crisp, fresh air, relishing his freedom from the musty infirmary.

    Some way into the trees, he found a rose bush, still flowering feebly in the frost. Bard took his dagger and cut the flowers from their stems, smelling them, thinking of Thranduil, who was undoubtedly held up by his mother again, trapped by politics and, as he liked to put it, ‘an encumbrance of the soul.’

    It must be trying, Bard thought, to be burdened with such a task. He wished he could help Thranduil; wished he could make him see how much love there was behind him, and for him, and with him. His mother was his blood, but his crew was his family, for they were inspired to stand with him, not bow before his leadership.

    Bard had walked less than a mile when he saw a figure up ahead, crouched down in the snow, almost invisible, for she was dressed all in white and had skin so pale the moon might have envied her. To Bard’s astonishment, Galadriel was not alone. Snuffling about the trees beside her was a large, white wolf, which caught sight of Bard first and sat very still, watching him with sharp eyes.

    “Well, if it isn’t the little boy who was not meant to be,” crooned Galadriel, straightening up as Bard approached. She was carrying a little basket of strange, white berries that rolled and lolled about like bodiless eyes.

    Bard hesitated around the wolf; though it did not seem dangerous, its stillness unnerved him, and when he looked at it, he felt like he was forgetting himself. It did not growl or raise its hackles, but continued to stare at him. It was quite beautiful, in its own way, with long, shaggy fur and a pointed, intelligent face.

    “This is Nenya,” Galadriel said, as if she were introducing a beloved friend.

    “I didn’t know you had a… pet,” said Bard.

    “She is my companion.”

    Bard shook his head, looking away from the wolf. “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”

    Galadriel wiggled her bare feet in the snow with amusement. “I’m looking for baneberries,” she said, shaking her basket.

    “Aren’t baneberries poisonous?” said Bard with a frown.

    “To humans maybe.”

    Bard knew he was going to get no further explanation for this, so he changed the subject, taking a tentative step away from the wolf as it padded passed him to the other side of the path, sniffing eagerly for berries.

    “What did your prophecy mean?” he asked.

    Galadriel raised a pale eyebrow, picking some white berries from a red stem and throwing them into her basket. “It wasn’t a prophecy,” she said.

    “Then what was it?”

    “A prediction.”

    “Is that not the same thing?”

    Galadriel shook her head, gesturing for Bard to join her as she walked further into the forest. “A prophecy is a foretelling that is set in stone. A prediction can be altered if events leading up to it are changed or tampered with. And you, little sailor, are well on your way to changing the future.”

    Bard shook his head again, feeling nettled. “What are you talking about?”

    “What I saw in my mirror was fate, but fluxed because your presence disturbed its balance.”

    “But how?” Bard demanded. “I’m not anyone important. I mostly just get in the way.”

    “ _That_ you most certainly do,” Galadriel agreed, grinning toothily, as though she were appreciating a good joke. “And you have the power to change history. I have never met anyone with that power.”

    “You said that I would forsake the future in an act of despair. Is that what you mean? Am I destined to die and ruin it all?”

    Galadriel paused in the midst of picking berries. She blinked up at Bard a few times, perplexed. “It wasn’t you that I spoke of.”

    Bard opened and closed his mouth several times, stunned. “Then who?”

    “Thranduil.”

    “What?”

    Galadriel sighed, straightening up. “I am no Seer – such a thing is nonsense, for one does not See, but is Shown, just as I was Shown Captain Thranduil’s fate… until it was entwined with yours,” she explained.

    “But what do I have to do with anything? I’m just a kid who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Bard desperately, running a hand through his hair.

    “And yet you are destined to alter the future; you already have,” said Galadriel simply.

    “So when you spoke of the act of despair…”

    “I spoke of Thranduil. He is going to die.”

    Bard’s mouth went dry. “Is there no way to prevent that?”

    Galadriel shrugged, grasping at her back to pull a shawl over her snowy hair. “Not unless something drives you apart, and even then it may not change anything. In my experience, love can do all sorts of wonders – it can fall cities and conquer kingdoms and, if you want it very badly, it can shape the world at a whim – and a love like the one Thranduil has for you is strong enough. It’s just unfortunate that he is foolish; he would risk everything to save you, and that’s exactly what will happen.”

    “What do you mean?”

    Galadriel’s expression softening ever-so slightly. “You had best be more careful with your life, little boy, or your dear Captain might be the price to pay for it. Death doesn’t make bargains; remember that.”

    Bard tried not to acknowledge that he had thought this only a few days previously. He had a sneaking suspicion that Galadriel could read minds and, from what he had witnessed as of late, he wouldn’t have put it passed her.

    “So you are saying Thranduil’s death will be my fault?”

    “You ought not to hold yourself responsible for something that is beyond your control. Whether it is because yours is in immediate danger or because circumstance change, Thranduil is ultimately going to choose you over everything else, even if that means sacrificing his own life. But I will say this only once; you are capable of shaping the course of this voyage. Thranduil may be doomed to fail because you are here, but you also have the power to help him succeed. It is up to you which path you take, even if you don’t know where it leads.”

    Bard fell silent, having finally run out of questions – or rather, run out of the heart to ask them.

    “Maybe I should just leave,” he muttered.

    Galadriel hissed her disapproval. “I would not, if I were you.”

    “But if it spares Thranduil’s life –” Bard looked down at the roses in his hands. He twirled one between his fingers, watching the red spin.

    “Have you not been listening?!” Galadriel demanded, hands on her hips like a cross mother. “Leaving will only disrupt destiny further! Who knows what might happen.”

    “Then what can I do?”

    “Fight, and hope for the best. It is all we can do.” Galadriel patted her leg and Nenya pranced over, her tail wagging. She sniffed Bard warily, her ears folded back on her head. Bard thought about petting her, but decided against it. Galadriel smiled. “We all have our place and our duty in this world; yours is to Thranduil, and Thranduil’s – though once to his mother – is now to you, and sometimes we do not get to choose our fate. But be strong, for there is much yet still to unfold, and be foretold, and untold. And remember this; love does not conquer all things. Whoever believes this is either dead or lying.”

    Galadriel and her wolf left Bard on the path, disappearing into the trees in search of their berries. He watched the space where they had been for a while before turning back and making his way to the palace again, his head swimming and heart beating out a slow, pitiful funeral march. He felt more confused than ever and, deep down, wished he had never learned the truth of Galadriel’s prediction. He had been so sure it was he who was to die, but knowing now that it was Thranduil instead made his own presence hard to bear. How could he justify it if it drowned him?

    As he trudged back down the path, Bard heard rustling in the trees ahead. A person emerged from the shadows of the boughs and brambles, pooled in the shadow of the leafy canopy. She too was dressed in white, a vision of loveliness, like a snowdrop cast in winter.

    “What a pleasant surprise.” Nemireth glided over, her gown trailing the snow behind her.

    Bard opened his mouth to greet her, but paused, feeling suddenly guarded. Why had the Queen been hiding until now? Had she been eavesdropping?

    “I hate to be a snoop,” she said airily, a smile set firmly in place, her voice honeyed and high, “but were you speaking of the witch’s prophecy just now?”

    Bard clenched his fist around the roses, feeling the thorns dig into his palms. “It was just the prediction she gave us a few months ago, after we left Imladris.”

    “Yes, Thranduil spoke of it… but he did not mention a death.” Nemireth’s expression was still kind, but Bard was not fooled. She bore too much of a resemblance to Thranduil. To know one of them was to know them both, and Bard knew she was being false. She held that same glimmer in her eyes that Thranduil did when he was lying.

    “We assumed it to be my death,” Bard cautioned then to say.

    “But it is Thranduil’s?”

    Bard did not reply, biting his lip anxiously. He had long mistrusted the Queen, unsure of her motive beyond securing the throne for herself. He had faith in her, and swore his allegiance, but he did not trust her.

    A beat passed between them, and behind him Bard heard a wolf howling. Then, Nemireth dropped all pretext for pleasantries. She stepped towards him, pointing a gloved finger maliciously and speaking very hard and fast, her eyes alight with fury.

    “Listen to me very carefully; if you are not on a boat and out of this country by midnight tonight, I will _ensure_ that the prediction spoke of _your_ death. I will not have you compromise this mission or my son’s life. I don’t care who you are or what you’re supposed to mean to him – you pose a threat to everyone here and I think it would be best if you left.”

    Bard stared at the Queen, open-mouthed and horrified. His insides had practically recoiled at her words.

    “But – but you can’t make me leave,” he choked out. “Thranduil needs me.”

    With surprising strength and agility, Nemireth seized Bard by the front of his coat and pulled him so close he could feel her warm breath on his mouth.

    “What Thranduil _needs_ is to live through this, or is it your wish for him to die?” Nemireth tossed Bard carelessly. He stumbled and fell back into the snow. He felt the stiches in his stomach break, shooting a pain in him like he was being stabbed all over again.

    “Midnight tonight. I will have a boat ready for you at the docks.”


	27. Kings, Queens, and Broken Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention it in the last chapter, but can I just tell you guys how LONG I have been waiting for this? Because this is it; the beginning of the end. This fic has gone on too long. It should have ended like 10 chapters ago. I had no idea it would get so out of hand. However, that in mind, I just want to thank you all for reading this story and leaving comments and kudos. I appreciate every number that goes up on the counts above with all my little heart.

Thranduil left the infirmary before dawn. He had slept poorly, and would continue to in the days to come, unable to find any peace in any bed, whether Bard be in it or not. In many ways, he had tried to escape his mother by doing her bidding – striking two pigeons with one stone, as it were – yet she had found Thranduil here, at the end of the world where it snowed and his friends died and Bard’s shoulder never got better.

    Leaving Bard to sleep, arm thrown over his mess of curls, Thranduil dressed in his clothes from the previous day and tip-toed from the ward. He shivered in the crisp morning. He had never known winter to be as cold as it was in Erebor; it was the kind of cold that found the deepest parts of your bones and made your heart ache. Though Thranduil thought it was perhaps the grief that took him so, or an unbearable combination of the two.

    The rest of the palace had woken as well, fixed to a schedule like clockwork, which was something Thranduil appreciated. Even when he himself could not swallow the devastation his crew had been made to suffer at his command, the servants and gentry and chamber maids swallowed it for him, turning the world when he believed it no longer could.

    Thorin was in the kitchens when Thranduil entered, the heavy door rumbling against his push. They met this way sometimes, even in the weeks that followed, passing jam across the table in silence, staving the frost with sips of coffee. Thranduil had never enjoyed coffee before, but it was good here, so he drank it while he could. Bard had said he didn’t like it, which came as no surprise for he needed two cubes of sugar just for tea.

    “May I be blunt?” Thorin said without greeting, breaking their usual quiet.

    Thranduil turned to look at him, accepting a cup of coffee from the cook and a plate of bread and cheese. She set down a saucer of milk for the cat, too, who had slunk in after Thranduil in search of breakfast.

    “If it’s about the Queen, I am not in the mood to discuss it,” Thranduil said, sitting down at the stone table opposite.

    Thorin sighed, rubbing a hand over his bearded face. “I know she’s your mother, but can you not do something about her? I think she forgets her place in my kingdom.”

    “I have been trying to reason with her ever since she arrived,” Thranduil grumbled, tearing meekly at his bread. “But she’s the whole reason I am here, your sister’s advice notwithstanding. I cannot go back on my word to serve her.”

    “I know you and your family have… issues,” Thorin said bracingly, “but she is going to expose us all with her last minute vagaries. We are all of us involved now – the alliance affects everyone – but I think she fails to see that it is not only about her and her gems. Forgive me for saying it, but it seems that she wants this to turn into a war.”

    Thranduil frowned, but could not bring himself to come to his mother’s defence wholeheartedly. “What could she possibly seek to benefit from a war?”

    Thorin shrugged. “Search me; she’s _your_ mother.”

    Thranduil chose not to reply to this. Instead, he sipped his coffee and pondered Thorin’s words. As much as he disliked the man, there was some merit to his point of view. He was smarter and surer of himself than Thranduil remembered and, in spite of himself, he had come to admire it.

    “We need to keep her away from the Council,” Thorin pressed on, disrupting the silence again. He was all too aware of the danger Nemireth posed to herself and others by representing Greenwood in Thranduil’s stead, and he seemed equally as determined to hinder her as the pirates were. “If she wants to be solo monarch that badly, she must be kept at bay – for her own sake.”

    “But you disagree with her choices, no matter what they are,” said Thranduil. “I know you don’t approve of what we’re doing.”

    “It is not that I disapprove,” Thorin said, smearing a piece of bread with jam thoughtfully. “On the contrary, I think it’s a very good idea, but you have executed it poorly and are taking too many risks.  But it is your country to do with what you will. As long as mine isn’t marked by your actions, I am happy to help under mutual benefit – under alliance, that is. Regardless of your questionable motives, we are both here to help one another other, and that is something I cannot afford to turn away.”

    “What would you do differently?” Thranduil asked then.

    Thorin swallowed his mouthful of food before answering. “I would have just killed the bastard in the way – have it over and done with.”

    “What, assassinate the King?” Thranduil said, unable to supress his outrage at such a treacherous notion.

    “It sounds bad when you put it like that, but it would have been the cleanest, fastest way to claim the throne, and would have made little difference with the way the Queen is behaving now. That aside, what will you even do with Oropher once you dethrone him? What’s to stop him crawling to Lothlorien and reeling in his – might I add, very powerful – ally?”

    “Amdir will also be succeeded before that happens,” Thranduil said, tapping a ring against his cup agitatedly. He was becoming more and more aware of the unlikelihood of every circumstance falling into place in the order it was meant to; they were asking for too many miracles.

    “Oh yeah?” Thorin countered, raising an eyebrow. “And how is Galadriel supposed to claim that spit of land when she and her wolf are skulking in my mountain and doing away with my forestation for her potions?

    Thranduil wrapped his hands around the cup, staring at a small crack in the stone table. “So, you’re saying we will have to kill him no matter what?”

    Thorin smiled grimly. “What else are you going to do with him? You cannot dethrone a King and expect him to oblige to any lower standing position you put him in. With luck on your side, he will simply flee and disappear, but I have not heard Oropher to be the surrendering type.”

    Thranduil wished he could argue this, but Thorin was not a man to speak falsely of anything when the truth always served him far better.

    “Whatever his fate, it will not be for me to decide.”

    “We shall see.”

    Thorin drained the rest of his coffee and stood from the table, leaving Thranduil to his thoughts. Thorin was right, of course; Oropher could turn this into a far bloodier war than his wife if left to survive such a downfall, even if Galadriel succeeded in taking Lothlorien. The witch had mentioned some days prior that Celeborn was rallying Amdir’s armies and, while this was good news, it did not mean Oropher was without strength, for trading slaves to the northern countries had likely gained him far more allies than Thranduil was willing to believe.

    His heart heavy, Thranduil finished eating and returned to the infirmary, hoping not to run into his mother on the way there. He had begun to avoid her, tired as he was of listening to her schemes and gossip. It riled him to see how unperturbed she was by the grief that had struck the pirates who had sacrificed so much for her, fully convinced they were fighting fit after only a few days of rest. But that had not been the case even before the fight off Erebor’s coast. Thranduil and his men had not recovered from mourning Feren’s death, and now they were struck again by Orophin’s fall, and barely coping with the absence of two. It felt much bigger a number than it was, for it affected so many.

    Thranduil knew it was pointless to hate himself for Orophin’s death, but he was reminded constantly of the responsibility he had for his crew; a Captain ought always to look after his men, cherish their loyalty, and put their lives before that of anyone else’s. But Thranduil had failed spectacularly in this respect. He no longer felt befitting of the title.

    The sun had stretched into the sky now, capping the Lonely Mountain with orange and gold. The infirmary was quiet, caught in the sun like a white haven of crackling fire and linen.

    Thranduil saw Bard and Glorfindel drinking tea by the hearth, talking in urgent undertones. But when he approached, they fell silent, exchanging significant looks. Thranduil raised an eyebrow, but decided against speaking up. He was tired. He could not find it within himself to care.

    “Have you seen the Queen?” he asked instead,, hoping to hear she was in the other side of the palace.

    Glorfindel and Bard both shook their heads. They looked pale and frightened, staring at Thranduil as though he were a ghost. He frowned.

    “What is it?”

    “Nothing,” said Bard at once. “We haven’t seen her.”

    “I am desperate for a day without her company. I need to find a way to keep her from the council meeting,” Thranduil said.

    “Why?” said Glorfindel.

    “She has to be stopped from turning this into chaos. It is bad enough that the Council and the rest of the assembly know that she is here, without her wreaking havoc among them.” He chose not to mention what Thorin had said about slaying Oropher. He knew it would only make the crew restless and annoyed when they had enough on their minds as it was.

    Glorfindel set his cup down on a little table. “Why not throw her in a cell? Thorin has the power to do that.”

    “Throwing her in a cell benefits no one. She will just be angry with us,” said Thranduil.

    “A diversion, perhaps?”

    “Creating one for several hours will be difficult. There is no telling how long the meeting will last.”

    “Well, I am clearly the wrong person to be asking about this,” Glorfindel concluded. “Bard?”

    “I have to find Lindir,” said Bard abruptly, and he walked away, holding a hand to his stomach.

    Thranduil furrowed his brow with concern. “What happened?”

    “I think his stiches came out,” said Glorfindel absently, preoccupying himself with the cuff of his sleeve.

    “But how?”

    Glorfindel shrugged noncommittally, which set Thranduil off.

    “What’s going on?” he said crossly.

    “Nothing!” Glorfindel hastened to say. “We’re just tired.”

    “From lying around in bed all day?”

    “Look, no offence, Captain, but you’re not the one who got stabbed or half-killed here. We’re all in a state.”

    Thranduil shook his head, feeling impertinent, wishing his temper did not best him so. Privately, he envied his crew who were able to rest to their heart’s content in the ward, but he pitied them also, for their grievances were harsh and extensive. Glorfindel had fractured his arm and lost his prosthesis. Erestor’s jaw was broken, as were several of his ribs, and he spent hours at a time in complete silence, reading books in his bed. Elros, too, had sustained burns to his chest and neck from a cannon, and Thranduil would never, ever forget the deep slash on Tauriel’s back, which finally outmatched the whipping scars there from her childhood.

    Leaving Glorfindel to his tea, Thranduil went to a window, looking out onto the white grotto cast in morning sunlight. Two figures sat at a gravestone, black and silent like mourning ravens. As he watched, two others approached, carrying thick cloaks and flasks of drink. Meludir sat in the snow beside Rúmil, kissing his cheek very sweetly and pushing back his yellow hair. Legolas, small, too young to be understanding such sorrow, lay a wreath of Daphne flowers against the headstone.

    Unable to watch any further, Thranduil turned away from the window, leaning on its ledge and taking steady breaths. From the corner of his eye, tucked away in an enclosed room in the corner of the infirmary, he saw Bard with Lindir, his shirt off and the bandages around his stomach being removed. They were stained freshly with blood and, as each layer was peeled away, Lindir was forced to prise the linen from the stab-wound, for it had already begun to fuse with the skin.

    Bard was in poor shape, and Thranduil could not help but blame himself. It was a feeling he was long accustomed to, given his duty to his crew, but it came in maddening waves of regret where Bard was concerned. He followed Thranduil for few reasons other than he loved him; he entrusted his life to him, and yet it felt as though he was slowly losing it with each infliction he sustained under Thranduil’s command. Bard had been shot, slashed, stabbed, branded and beaten, and Thranduil was terrified that their next fight would not see him alive at the end of it. And how could he, Thranduil, live with himself afterwards? How could he justify it? He had come to realise that his duty to his Queen existed only until his task was done, and if Bard wasn’t there when it was, then there wasn’t any excuse left not to drown.

    And yet, Thranduil knew deep down that he would linger on, for he owed his life to everyone who followed him, and he would owe it to everyone who remained.     

    As Thranduil returned to face the window once more, Amroth entered the infirmary, his expression glum and weary. He found Thranduil and they stood together in silence, observing the small assembly outside. Haldir sat quite still, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his younger brother beside him, less composed with his legs splayed out. They did not look at each other, and Thranduil knew it was harder for them in a way that could not be expressed with just grief, for though Orophin lay in marble and in peace beneath the snow, he remained among them in Rúmil’s reflection, the spitting image of the brother he and Haldir had lost.

    Several moments passed before Amroth finally spoke.

    “We need more builders to repair the ship. She’s careened on the beach, but the damage is too extensive to deal with only part of the crew able to work.”

    “Surely Dís can lend her men to help,” Thranduil suggested, averting his gaze from the courtyard at last.

    Amroth shook his head. “They left this morning to the other side of the country. Something about a mining accident.”

    “We’ll speak to Thorin, then.”

    As they left the infirmary, Thranduil caught Bard’s eye. He was by the fire again, pulling his shirt back on. The manner of his expression made Thranduil think he wished to say something, but at the last minute he looked away, tucking in his shirt and biting his lip. Thranduil started to go back, worry settling in his stomach, but Amroth had already gone through the door, so he followed, feeling left out of something important.

    They went to the library, where Thorin spent most of his time. It was a separate structure to the mountain, a tower jutting out from its craggy face. Brightly lit and circular, it was filled with more books and scrolls than all the libraries in Greenwood, Lothlorien and Imladris combined.

    Thranduil approached Thorin at a table. He was reading the accounts of the dragon that had been brought ashore and was so utterly absorbed that it took him several moments to notice his attention was required.

    “My ship needs repairs, but half my men are out of action,” Thranduil said. “May I request the help of yours?”

    Thorin took them downstairs, under the mountain where the forges were and where the heart of the kingdom seemed to hum in the bellows and steel. There they found carpenters and blacksmiths who had time to spare. They kept no expertise of ships, but under Amroth’s instruction, they worked well. Thranduil, too, stayed on the beach for most of the day, helping to restore the main mast that had broken, and lacquer the fresh timber that mended the holes sustained from cannons. It was the worst damage his ship had ever sustained and Thranduil felt bad for her, beached like an injured whale and without liberty. She had taken him across the world and around again and he loved her very much.

    He returned to the palace at dusk, leaving the _Eryn Lasgalen_ to lick her tended wounds, much like her crew in the mountain. They were all of them somehow broken, just as she was. Thranduil knew well enough that time mended all things, but in the weeks they spent in Erebor, before and after the bad thing happened, it felt that all the time in the world could not have mended such vast disrepair and sorrow.

    Though he longed for food and rest, Thranduil was not to receive it. Upon entering the mountain with Amroth and several others, he saw Nemireth standing by the stairs in the foyer. She was talking to Bard with her hands on the hips of her wide gown, which was such a soft shade of blue it could have been mistaken for sea foam.

    Thranduil knew Bard and the Queen had spent some time together in order to oversee the escape from Greenwood, but he hadn’t known them acquainted enough to be bickering such as they were. Bard was red in the face and pointing rudely at Nemireth, but when he saw Thranduil coming in through the stone doors, he fell silent at once, the colour draining from his face.

    Nemireth whipped around, spotted Thranduil, and gave a delighted cry.

    “There you are! I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” she said, clicking over on her high heels and looping her arm through his, which was dirty at the sleeves from the day’s work. “I need you to help me review my speech.”

    Pulled along in the wake of her step, Thranduil glanced back at Bard by the stairs, wishing he could convey his longing to be with him. Though they were only ever a few rooms apart at any given time, it felt like a distance greater than the oceans had wedged itself between them. Thranduil didn’t know if it was the vacant expression on Bard’s face, or his mother’s determination to practically drag him off by the ear like a disobedient boy, but he sensed the discrepancy between worlds at that moment; the world with Bard in it, and the world without.

   

    The evening fell away with the drone of Nemireth’s speech and talking points, which Thranduil only vaguely offered suggestions for because sitting with her this way was a waste of his time when he was prepared to have her jailed before offer such a speech to the council. But sit he did and waste his time, and all the while he thought of Bard in the infirmary with the others, speaking of brighter things, perhaps, or playing games to pass the time before bed.

    When at last his mother had deemed their session a productive one, it was nearly midnight, and Thranduil was halfway drunk on wine. Rubbing his eyes, he snuffed the last of the candles and shuffled out of the parlour.

    It was difficult to manoeuvre himself down stairs in the dim light of the mountain, hazy as he was, but he managed to make it back to the infirmary and into Bard’s bed. The other man was awake, but silent, and when Thranduil prodded him in the back, he turned around.

    “I miss you,” Thranduil whispered.

    “I’m right here,” said Bard.

    “But I’m not, and I should be. My duty is to my crew, in sickness and in health,” said Thranduil sagely, sniffling slightly in his intoxication.

    Bard gave a shaky laugh. “You are not married to us, Thranduil,” he said.

    “Nay, but I ought to be.”

    Bard shifted in the bed beside Thranduil and kissed him on the forehead before pulling the blankets over them both.

 

    The dawn came again, as it always did, like a misty, harrowed miracle. Every night Thranduil slept, he half-expected it to stay dark. But the world turned on.

    The bed was empty when he rose, and the sheets on the right side were cold, which meant Bard must have woken some time ago. Thranduil groaned at his mild headache, blinking away the light of the sun through the window. Then, he sat up, and his hand came to rest on something soft that was not fabric.

    He looked down and raised his palm to see a rose nestled in the bed beside him, bloody red and fully bloomed, a folded up bit of parchment beneath its stem. Pushing his tangled, dirty hair from his face, Thranduil picked up the flower and lifted it to his nose with a smile. He wondered where Bard had got it from, for the ones on the windowsill in their chamber upstairs were long dead and drooping. He set it on the table and unfolded the parchment.

    _I’m sorry_.

    Thranduil read over Bard’s messy, poorly-jointed handwriting, the indent between his eyebrows intensifying with each repeated sweep of his eyes. Then, he got out of bed, put on his clothes from the day before, and went to the kitchens to find breakfast. Asfaloth was at his feet again, her tail coiling around his legs as they walked together. Thranduil sat at the stone table, alone this time, for it was late and Thorin had already eaten. He accepted the coffee and bread and cheese from the cook, but when he stood to leave, he had somehow left it all untouched.

    On his way back to the infirmary, Amroth found him, Meludir, Lethuin and Galion at his side.

   “Have you seen Bard? I need him to oversee expenses in town. We’re out of paint and I thought the ship could use a new coat while she’s careened.”

    Thranduil shook his head. “I haven’t seen him. Glorfindel is Quartermaster; ask him to go with you.”

    “I would, but Lindir won’t let him leave the infirmary for any length of time. And besides, Bard knows the ship better – knows what colours she needs.” Amroth dithered for a moment, head cocked like a curious puppy, his long hair falling across his shoulder. “I would ask you, but you’ve been so busy with the Queen as of late…”

    “I’m not busy now,” Thranduil interjected. “I’ll go.”

    The five of them went to the city together, the people of Dale greeting them cheerfully as they wandered shops in search of supplies. Thranduil was eager to see his ship in fine colours again, for she had been so long without a brush of paint and her complexion was grey and unthreatening. They laden themselves with paint and lacquer and new brushes and congregated on the beach, pulling their cloaks and furs tight around their necks to stave the wind and cold. But soon the work provided enough warmth, and only their exposed fingers suffered the biting chill.

    Not long after they had started on the port side, they were joined by Nimrodel, Elladan, Elrohir, Elrond, and Legolas.

    Legolas had taken to calling Thranduil ‘adar,’ a term he had picked up from Elrond’s sons, and which meant father. Though he had been deeply misguided by the twins, Thranduil could not bring himself to stop Legolas from adopting the word. He had too long considered the boy as more than just a ward, for all Thranduil had never wanted a son before, he was blessed to have one now.

    Some hours after midday, when they were onto the other side of the ship, Tauriel came down the sand dunes, her red hair streaming behind her in the wind. She clutched a thick fur cape around her neck, her freckled face pale in the chill.

    “The Queen is looking for you,” said when she found Thranduil beneath the ship on the sand.

    Thranduil closed his eyes, willing patience to find him. “What does she want?”

    Tauriel shrugged, and then winced as she hurt her back. “She did not say, but come back from this awful cold. You all deserve some rest.”

    Inclined to agree, Thranduil set down his brush and gestured for the crew to follow him back up to the mountain, through the city where the townsfolk waved to them again. Thranduil was still bewildered by their popularity as pirates in such a lavish and well-thought of city such as Dale. What Thorin had said rang true for all those who lived in Erebor, it seemed, for there were no pirates, only people.

    Thranduil and his crew filed into the warm foyer of the mountain, breathing sighs of reprieve from the cold and stamping slush and snow and sand from their boots.

    “There you are!”

    Thranduil turned to see his mother coming out of the infirmary, tailed at a short distance by Glorfindel, his arm in a sling and his jaw set.

    “You’re never around when I need you, dear. I have something important to tell you. To tell you all, in fact.”

    Nemireth cast her eyes solemnly about the foyer, drawing the attention of the rest of the crew – most of the crew, in fact. Thranduil had not noticed how many had been working on the ship, crafting her into loveliness again. The sight of it made his heart warm.

    “I am sorry to say that one our company has left us,” Nemireth said, bowing her magnificent head. “Bard has chosen a different path to the righteous one we travel, and faithless is he to abandon us just because it has darkened.”

    Muttering rippled through the group behind Thranduil, all heads turning to look at him. He said nothing.

    “But do not let his departure dishearten you,” Nemireth went on. “We still stand united under justice, and under hope.”

    The silence that rang hence was heavy with the mounting tension of no one having the courage to be the first to speak aloud. Some whispers and quiet oaths flittered among the pirates, but otherwise they waited for Thranduil to say something.

    He had known, of course, that Bard had left. He only wondered why he had not done so sooner, for Bard had nothing to gain from staying, and Thranduil had nothing to give him. There were no longer bargains left to be made for them. There were no more miracles.

    “He isn’t faithless.” It was Glorfindel who broke the silence, stepping forward from the infirmary door. He approached the huddle, glaring at the Queen. “You forced him from our midst.”

    Nemireth took a step back, evidently faltering in her conviction. Thranduil’s heart seemed to be quickening, but he couldn’t feel it enough to be sure. Glorfindel looked alight with ire, his golden hair bristling like the setting sun.

    “You threatened him into leaving,” he spat. “He would never abandon us of his own accord.”

    Thranduil stared at his mother who, for the first time in his life, could not find the words to defend herself.

    “How could you?” Nimrodel shrieked, her rage matching Glorfindel’s.

    “I – I perceived a threat,” Nemireth stammered, “and I eliminated it.”

    “A threat?” snapped Elrond. “What threat is Bard?”

    “He was the best of us!” Galion exclaimed.

    A murmur of assent resounded among the pirates this time. Nemireth’s eyes glistened with dread, for she had not anticipated her announcement to go so terribly astray. She looked at Thranduil, her hands beseeching at her breast.

    “He was going to be your downfall,” she breathed. “The prophecy – it spoke of your death, not his.”

    Thranduil took a step back of his own, closer to his crew, his heart like a dead thing coming back to life; coming back to life to make him feel. But he didn’t want to feel, because feeling it – what his mother had done, and what he had failed to prevent – would kill him without providing the mercy of actually letting him die.

    “Please,” Nemireth sobbed, hands over her mouth now as she saw her son’s countenance. “I only did what I thought was best.”

    “Best for you,” retorted Nimrodel, who by far was the most enraged of anyone. “Anything to protect yourself.”

    At this, the Queen became heated, her hands dropping and curling into white-knuckled fists. “I was protecting my son.”

    The foyer fell quiet again, all eyes on Thranduil, as if waiting for him to pass judgement on a criminal. He shifted on his feet, feeling the worn leather in the soles of his shoes, remembering all the times they had bumped with Bard’s feet when they kissed.

    “Protecting me from what?”

    He had said it so it was barely a whisper, yet it reached every ear.

    “From your death! That sailor would have been your undoing. I heard the witch telling him so,” Nemireth said fiercely, having found her voice again.

    Though his heart suffocated him, Thranduil was composed enough to extend an arm to stop Nimrodel breaking ranks behind him. He knew, even then, that they could not make an enemy out of the Queen by attacking her.

    “My death would not have been so inevitable if you had not sent me on this quest in the first place,” he said.

    Nemireth quivered beneath her son’s glare, but did not back down. She was at the centre of them, no matter how they rallied against her at that moment.

    “But I have resolved it again! Everything can go as planned, and you needn’t worry about dying.”

    “I have never worried about that,” Thranduil said evenly, his arm still holding back Nimrodel, who was practically spitting with anger. “It is not my death of which I am concerned with, but of those who have followed me in pursuit of your ambitions. I lost half my crew to the task you set us, and I am still losing them – they are still paying the price for your misguidance and desire – so hear me when I say that my death will come as a blessing, for with it my debt to those men and women shall be paid, and I will be welcomed by them in the Hell you have condemned us to.”

    He released Nimrodel, who had settled down at his words, and left the foyer, taking the stairs to the upper floors. He walked them slowly, his steps measured, hearing each footfall as it met the stone. Though he had spent all his life trusting and admiring his mother, her betrayal did not come with shock or sadness. Thranduil was, very simply, unsurprised by her, what with her false smiles and glittering diamonds always trying to blind him. He was in many ways glad to see her true nature, sputtering out like a candle in the darkness and destroying them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm making Nemireth look bad, but it's all about perspective. She'll have her moment soon enough, I'm sure. I'm not going to ostracise one of the few women in this damn story, especially the one who instigated this ridiculousness. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm sorry that Bard is gone, but we'll meet him a little later on, I promise.


	28. After the Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been forever and a day since I updated, but lots of things all happened at once, as they do, and I got caught up in it all. I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter, but I managed to include some plot points that I've been unknowingly avoiding and I hope you enjoy it all the same. I'm going to go ahead and be proactive by saying I don't know when the next chapter will be, but I have about 70% of the story planned out, so hopefully it won't take two months to write the next chapter like this one did. Thanks for reading you guys!

A great storm came to Erebor that night. It carried over from the north, bitter cold and monstrous, making the city fear that the dragon had come to claim them at last. From the bay window of his room, Thranduil watched the neighbouring forest bend over double from the force of the wind. The rain lashed the windows, beating them in like an intruder. Numbly, he thought of Bard, and of the fate such a storm would bring him out at sea, for there was no doubt in Thranduil’s mind that it would be a hurricane on the water.

    It was near midnight when a timid knock at the door interrupted the quiet and Glorfindel entered the room, Legolas close behind him. On his hand he was balancing a tray with three teacups and a pot. Legolas closed the door before hurrying over to Thranduil, climbing up onto the window seat and wrapping his little arms around him.

    “No fire,” Glorfindel observed, squinting in the dark at the fireplace and setting down the tray. “Aren’t you cold?”

    “No,” Thranduil lied.

    “Legolas, be a pal and get a fire going,” Glorfindel said.

    Legolas jumped down from the seat and started to toss logs onto the grate. Glorfindel poured tea, watched dolefully by Thranduil, who shook his head in protest when Glorfindel handed him a cup. Glorfindel sighed and set it down again. In the light of the gradually building fire, Thranduil saw his friend raise a hand to his chest and pull something over his head. He presented it to Thranduil, flat on his palm with the leather cord dangling between his fingers

    “Bard gave me this. To keep safe” he explained quietly. When Thranduil did not take it, he added, “He understands what is at stake; he understands the price that must be paid. And perhaps we are no better off without him, whatever the Queen said, but he’s gone and we have to keep fighting. He left because he knows what you mean to this quest, and what you mean to this crew.”

    Thranduil looked at Glorfindel, and for a moment he saw the curly-haired boy who had run with him through the palace halls, skipping lessons to explore the forest or swim in the river, never less than a step behind Thranduil’s misbehaviour, and always getting caught in the middle of it. How little had changed since their reckless youth. Years later it felt as though they were still outstripping the King’s Guard, or sneaking onto ships as stowaways just for a laugh, or hiding behind Nemireth’s skirts because Oropher was in a temper. They two of them had changed, yet so much else had remained the same.

    In the growing firelight, the key glinted in Glorfindel’s palm. With a great effort, Thranduil took it, feeling the warmth it had drawn from Glorfindel’s skin as he wrapped his fingers around it. He had always been so sure of Bard to endure, even if one day all was lost. Thranduil somehow believed Bard to be the one to see the task was done, whatever the cost. But it was up to Thranduil, as it always should have been, to be the means to the end. He had been a fool to give Bard a responsibility that was not his bear.

    “He told you,” Thranduil finally said.

    “Not by any choice of his own,” said Glorfindel. “I practically forced it out of him, and then he made me swear to keep my silence. He didn’t want us to lose everything we had fought for – everything you had fought for – but when the Queen spoke the way she did and called him faithless… I had to speak up. We all deserved to know the truth.”

    “But why didn’t he come to me? Why didn’t he say goodbye?”

    Thranduil chewed on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying, though tears came hot and fresh to brim his eyes, for the harshest of departures are those without farewell.

    “He wanted to, but I think he wished to avoid being persuaded to stay. He was not himself. I know he didn’t tell me everything,” Glorfindel said.

    “I always thought he would stay,” Thranduil murmured, wiping his eyes hurriedly.

    Glorfindel sat beside him on the seat, looking solemn. His long hair tickled Thranduil’s arm. “Sometimes people’s intentions are not as good as they believe. Sometimes people leave and they don’t say goodbye. But Bard is loyal to you, even in his absence, and I’m sure he will come back when the time is right.”

    “Not with such a storm chasing him,” Thranduil said, tightening his fist around the key. “He won’t survive it to come back.”

    “Perhaps he has already made port,” said Glorfindel hopefully. “We can only guess at which way he sailed.”

    “He will have made for Greenwood,” said Thranduil dully. “It is the closest city.”

    Glorfindel’s face fell. Over his shoulder, he glanced at the downpour and wind beating in from outside, making the window pane tremble. He took a breath, then let the silence take the room as it had before his arrival with Legolas. The young boy sat by the hearth, prodding the logs with a poker and a blank expression. Thranduil wondered if he understood the severity of what had happened, and what was yet to come, for without Bard, how could Thranduil possibly stand to lead his men into such peril?

 

    In the long weeks that followed, what Thranduil missed most about Bard’s presence was waking up to it every morning; a constant he wished he had taken better advantage of when he had it. Thranduil missed the wonder Bard instilled in him, and the breathless possibility of being more than the sum of all the bad things he had done.

    When the first dawn came and the sun crowned the wind-swept trees beyond the mountain, Thranduil woke to an unfamiliar weight lying in the bed next to him. In some ways, he found it harder, to know that there was indeed someone there, but that someone was not Bard. As he stirred among the white linen and pillows, his hand found yellow curls, tangled among the sheets like twisted gold.

    Between him and Glorfindel lay Legolas, splayed out in his youthful dreams, his silver hair beginning to tickle the tips of his ears. Thranduil pondered his kindness and innocence, which existed in spite of all the hardship he had already faced. It was difficult to imagine that a child could be so brave when a full-grown man could not face the sunrise alone. 

    Thranduil knew sleep would not find him again. Without disturbing the other two, he got up and dressed, wrapping himself in many layers, though nothing seemed to warm him quite entirely. He slipped out of the room and went downstairs.

    It was unnaturally quiet beyond the palace walls. The aftershock of the night’s storm had stilled the world, silencing the birds and tapering the earth to just a fragment of stardust. Thranduil felt dismally small and hopeless, aware of that raw fear in his chest when he thought of the future, where his days were surely numbered.

    He walked through Dale, which was deserted save for the baker heaving sacks of flour into his shop and a distressed boy calling for a lost dog. Thranduil drifted passed them, wrapping his cloak tighter around himself.

    The beach was harrowed and windy, strewn with rocks and broken, unhandsome shells, and barely even a beach to Thranduil’s eyes. Ahead of him, in the distance, the _Eryn Lasgalen_ rocked on the water at the docks. She was bright and no longer asunder, deep green and gold, with her mast repaired and her sails neatly secured. She had not looked quite so grand since she first set sail. Oddly, Thranduil found he missed her, and missed the water beneath her; the crashing, thrashing, unrelenting sea at her keel. He no longer felt tied to the earth as he once had; there was little love left in him for things that grew, or least it was not the same love it used to be. He craved instead the spray of the oceans, the call of forgotten shores, and the golden streak of every burning horizon.

    He wandered the beach aimlessly, wishing it was summer, and that the sun might break through the clouds and warm his back again. Winter was harsh, and made all the worse for the travail Thranduil and his crew were facing. It felt like a lifetime ago when they were lounging in the dunes in Imladris, swimming through its crystal water and forgetting themselves.

    It was only when he arrived that Thranduil realised he had walked the breadth of the beach to the docks, and suddenly his ship was casting a shadow over him, creaking eerily in the grey morning. He gazed up at her, and from the corner of his eye saw a length of rope swinging from a mast.

    Thranduil went to it, wondering if the storm had set it loose from the rigging. Testing his weight, he climbed the rope and heaved himself aboard the ship, his boots thudding ominously on the deck, as though it was the only sound left in the world to hear.

    He knew at once that it was nonsense to think that Bard had been there, had perhaps said goodbye to the ship, as if it would make up for not saying goodbye to its captain. But as Thranduil considered the freshly lacquered rails and ran his fingers over the cannons, he saw the door to his cabin unlocked, set ajar only an inch.

    Thranduil approached the door. Whether it had been left open the previous day or if the storm had somehow forced it open (which had never happened before), the bolt had managed to break a hole into the cabin wall from being repeatedly beaten against it, and so it could no longer lock.

    Thranduil pulled the door open and stepped inside.

    It felt like a shrine to his sorrow, and he wished immediately that he had not entered. The cabin practically oozed with the memory of Bard, from his defiant glare from across the table when he and Thranduil had first met, to his tender footfalls when he had sometimes risen early and left Thranduil to sleep.

    Thranduil sat on the bed, lying back against the sheets and staring up at the canopy of decking above him. How many times had he lied here with Bard and not appreciated it? It hurt too much to count the days.

    Though he was sad, Thranduil was curious at the optimism in his stomach that refused to be quelled. Or was it something different? Something he did not dare give name to? For what was the point of hope, if it was not there to show itself?

    Something was amiss. Thranduil could sense it. The manner of Bard’s departure was so deeply unlike him that it unsettled Thranduil rather than upset him. Some stubborn, undefeated part of him refused to believe what he had been told, or at least that what he had been told was everything he needed to know.

    Thranduil sat up again, looking about the room, as if by chance he might find a clue to answer his misgivings. He felt a little delirious, as though he was looking for something that could not possibly be there, for what was the likelihood that Bard would leave something for him to find?

    Why, it was a very good likelihood, if Thranduil knew Bard at all.

    He lifted up the pillows of the bed, but found only sheets. He scattered his papers, but found only records and documents. He pillaged cupboards, uprooted spare clothes, emptied chests, and even felt between the cracks of furniture and floorboards. But he found nothing, and Thranduil at last felt that last fragment of faith in his stomach wash away with the sea.

    Admitting defeat, he made to leave the cabin.

      And there it was, plain as day, stuck to the door with wax.

    Thranduil tore the parchment away, his heart frantic. It was not sealed, but he unfolded it so hastily he tore a corner. It was a short letter, and it did not need Bard’s signature to prove that it was from him, for wrought with spelling mistakes as it was and with penmanship so poor, it could not possibly be from anyone else.

 

 

 

> _Thranduil,_
> 
> _It was wrong to leave the way I did, and to leave without saying goodby, but I knew that, if I had, you would not have let me go, tho I must. I must go. I wish I did not have to go alone, but you are needed in Erebor. There is so much we both still do not understand, but I went at Galadriel’s cownsel, not the Queen’s. I hope this is not a fool’s errand, or an errand for a fool, for alredy I am a fool and afraid to lose you._
> 
> _I left the key with Glorfindel, if he has not given it to you yet. What ever he tells you is the truth, but it is not all the truth._
> 
> _I cannot say any more. I have to go now. I am so sory. If I survive this, I pray it will all be wurth it. I am afraid; afraid to leave you, afraid to carry this task alone, for I think I only exist when I am with you._
> 
> _I have not abandened you. Watch the horizon. I am coming back._
> 
> _Bard._

 

    “Son of a bitch,” Thranduil muttered, and then he tucked the letter into his doublet.

    He left the cabin at a run, leaping over the ship’s railing and swinging down the rope so fast he burned his hands. But he paid the pain no mind, pelting at full speed down the docks and back to the beach. She was there, for where else would she be, if she knew she was needed? Bare feet at the shoreline, her ragged white dress caught the wind as she bent down, scouring the sand with her dark fingers.

    Thranduil slackened his pace, out of breath. Galadriel straightened up at his approach, her dark eye sparkling with everything he wanted to know.

    And yet Thranduil could not bring himself to ask for it. He stood there, panting, his head spinning, his mouth dry from all the things he couldn’t believe.

    “A storm is coming,” Galadriel said after a long time, looking over the sea.

    “It has already passed,” Thranduil corrected her.

    She looked at him, her face expressionless. “A worse one follows it.”

    “What do you know?”

    “Nothing, and everything. As to what is coming? Not enough.”

    “What’s coming?”

    “A firestorm, and a greater war than we bargained for,” Galadriel said, turning her eyes back to the water. She sounded uncharacteristically docile, like something had finally tamed her, or else affected her very deeply. She was not cryptic or sly, but quiet and… almost sad.

    Thranduil withdrew Bard’s letter from his doublet, unfolding it to show the witch. Galadriel only glanced at it.

    “He said you gave him counsel. Where has he gone?” Thranduil asked.

    “To look ahead,” Galadriel replied. “I can say nothing else for certain. I cannot predict the future, only glimpse it, and guess at it – though my guesses are usually right.”

    “So you don’t know where he’s gone?” Thranduil said.

    “He went to Greenwood, though I daresay his little boat did not make it through the night. After Greenwood, I cannot tell where his path will lead. That is up to him.”

    “But if his boat didn’t make it –”

    “Don’t worry yourself, little prince,” Galadriel interrupted. “He is not as alone as he says.”

    “Speak plainly, can’t you?” Thranduil demanded, his temper flaring.

    “There will be a time for speaking plainly, but until it comes, I shall amuse myself with ambiguity.”

    Thranduil sighed and stared down at the letter in his hands, willing it explain more.

    “Why didn’t he tell me this sooner?” he said, half to himself.

    “Your reaction to what the Queen did – or what she believes she did – had to be genuine,” Galadriel answered. “If she thinks plans are being made behind her back, she may do something reckless, and put those plans in jeopardy.”

    “I don’t know of any plans,” said Thranduil.

    “Yes, you do. I’m telling them to you.”

    “No, you’re not.”

    Galadriel smiled at this. “No, I’m not, but I’m debriefing you. There is no plan, not yet, but let us hope Bard returns in time for when there is.”

    “But why did he –?”

    Thranduil cut off his own question, remembering Amroth’s words from what felt like a very long time ago, about asking the right ones.

    “What did you tell him?” he put forth instead.

    Galadriel’s smile widened, as if she understood Thranduil’s train of thought, and approved of it. “I told him to find friends – friends of mine, and of his own, if he meets them on the way. A storm is coming, and we are desperately outnumbered.”

    “A storm?” Thranduil repeated, as comprehension dawned on him. “Surely you don’t mean an enemy?”

    Galadriel looked at him again, and this time her expression was almost pitying. “I fear not only one enemy. A shadow is growing in the south, and its heart is set on this mountain, and the dragon that dwells within it. We must be ready.”

    “How can we be ready for something that could arrive any day?” Thranduil said, feeling panic rise to his throat.

    But Galadriel shook her head “It will be a quiet winter. Wait for the windflowers before sharpening your swords. In the meantime, we must focus on the present and the alliance it brings. My mirror showed me something strange that I could not decipher. It was not clear. We must follow the course already set out for us.”

    “Is it ever clear?” Thranduil muttered.

    Galadriel’s eyes flashed angrily. “Yes it is. But where you and your crew are concerned, it has been foggy and incomprehensible and, frankly, a waste of time. The only thing I could gather with any surety is that we are in desperate need of an army or two, or else the quest will be lost to us.”

    “So you sent Bard to get them?” Thranduil said resentfully.

    “Yes, I sent Bard,” Galadriel huffed. “As far as I can see, he is best man for the job.”

    “But not the only one, surely!” Thranduil raged, no longer able to contain his ire. “I could have gone with him!”

    “And what would have happened here, do you think?” Galadriel countered, raising her pale eyebrows. “You need to secure that alliance and finish what you started. You may think it needless, but politics has its place in a war. Put your friend out of your mind for now.”

    Thranduil’s temper failed at once at these words, a great heaviness plunging through him instead.

    “I am not heartless enough for that," he said.

    “And here I thought this was bigger than the two of you,” Galadriel said airily.

    Thranduil cast his eyes down. “I suppose such a thing was easier to claim when there actually was two of us.”

    “It will be easy again soon,” Galadriel said, turning her back to the sea and gesturing for Thranduil to follow her up the dunes. “No person is quite the same as they were before love, and you cannot be blamed or begrudged for it. It changes you, and no one can help it.”

    “You speak as though from experience,” Thranduil inquired.

    Galadriel rolled her eyes very deliberately. “I may be older than the sea, but I still have a bit of human left in me for love.”

    “Older than the sea? Elrond said you were five hundred years,” Thranduil said.

    Galadriel simpered, throwing back her white hair in a vivacious fashion. “Do I really look that young? Bless him.”

    Thranduil decided it was best not to pursue this subject, but found he had nothing else left to say, for he didn’t think his morale could take it. He and Galadriel walked on in silence, back up the beach and towards the city. On the way, Thranduil spotted a dog padding up and down the barren rocks, sniffing helplessly at withered trees and shrubs. At the sight of the pair, it bounded over and followed them back to Dale, where Thranduil reunited it with the boy who had been looking for it.

   

    Though he knew he could never fully forgive her, Thranduil resolved to be civil with his mother. She kept her distance for the first few days after Bard left, still frightened by the poor reception her transgression had received. This suited Thranduil just fine, for he found his time better spent with his crew, whether in the infirmary drinking tea with those still healing, or teaching Legolas how to read and write better in the library. He knew he ought to be going over the council meeting and how best to secure the alliance, but Thranduil felt dejected and tired, and he half feared that the winter in Erebor would be the last time of peace for him and his crew.

    It was on the fourth day after Bard’s departure when it was announced that the meeting would be postponed indefinitely, for Oropher’s representative had failed to arrive, and Thorin was electing to wait for them.

    “But it’s their own fault if they miss out on the vote,” said Nemireth desperately, evidently determined to use such an opportunity to her advantage. “How can you wait for someone who is so rude as disrespect a prearranged time?”

    “Because the agreement was that all representatives are to be present for the assembly. Each country deserves a fair chance at forming an alliance. I won’t put King Oropher at a disadvantage in case his representative has been delayed due to an extenuating circumstance,” Thorin said, bristling at such insolence.

    “You hate Oropher as much as the rest of us,” Nemireth shrilled. “You gain nothing by making the rest of us wait for his delegate.”

    Thorin raised a bold eyebrow at this, glaring down at the Queen. “I think you, of all people, can appreciate the situation I am in right now. I cannot afford to get on the wrong side of a very powerful monarch just because his guest is late to my party. I won’t risk my throne or my kingdom over a petty misunderstanding.”

    Thranduil couldn’t help but smile as he watched his mother storm off, her violet skirts sweeping the stone floor. He and Thorin exchanged amused looks, and then Thranduil went over.

    “She’s not making herself very popular around here, is she?” he said.

    “I don’t know why she is here at all,” Thorin grumbled. “This mountain is the most dangerous place for her to be, considering she all but painted a target on her back.”

    “Dangerous, yes, but it is also where she has the most control,” Thranduil explained.

    Thorin shook his head, sighed, and then looked very meaningfully at Thranduil.

    “May I confess something?”

    Thranduil grimaced. “No doubt you will confess it whether I wish you to or not.”

    “I think you’re making a mistake,” Thorin said simply after a pause. “I think you’re sacrificing a great deal for someone who asks too much of you. What you’re doing for her is noble, to be sure, but it is something that should have been dealt with long before now.”

    “My mother wasn’t aware of the King’s actions until –”

    “– until you brought them to her attention, I know. But, Thranduil, that was years ago. What has she done in all that time? A woman as cunning and well-connected as her could have had that bastard assassinated without batting an eye to give away her involvement, and yet she sends you from one end of Middle Earth to the other, and for what? A handful of gems?”

    Thranduil narrowed his eyes at this. Though he was no longer distrustful of Thorin, he was not prepared to take his opinion on a whim.

    “What are you trying to say?”

    Thorin looked too nervous to continue, but his resolve was too great to stand down.

    “I have seen greed like hers before. It is no ordinary desire for treasure; it’s a requirement. It’s a hunger that cannot be sated. I saw it in my grandfather when he enlisted Smaug’s help, and I see it in her as well.”

    “But the gems benefit everyone,” Thranduil argued feebly.

    “Do they? I hear her speak of nothing else; not her country, nor the slaves she so wishes to set free.” Thorin faltered, taking a breath. “I cannot say I blame her, not entirely. I have seen those gems myself, and to be starved of something so beautiful… It’s not her fault. It happens to the best of us. Perhaps she wanted what you do, once, but I fear her need for those gems has taken over.”

    “That’s rubbish,” Thranduil said furiously. “You can’t be corrupted by treasure.”

    Thorin became very serious at this, his eyebrows knitting together. “Yes, you can. Especially treasure that sits above gold or ordinary jewels. Believe me, I know.”

    Thranduil thought he saw a shadow pass over Thorin’s eyes, like a black nothingness that could consume him if he let it, as he perhaps had done once before. Thranduil wanted to ask how Thorin knew, but his question was intercepted.

    “It’s just something to think about,” Thorin said, and he turned and walked away.

    But Thranduil did not think about it until weeks later, when it began to grow heavy on his mind. For the time being, he thought almost exclusively about Bard – about where he was, and what he was doing, and if he was safe. Thranduil found himself drawing the letter out of his pocket many times a day, though he had long memorised it. He fingered the dry, crinkled parchment and traced Bard’s messy loops with his eyes, as if he might find Bard in them somehow, trying to speak words that weren’t, and never would be there. There was a great emptiness in Thranduil’s chest at Bard’s absence, regardless of Galadriel’s reassurances that he was alright. It struck him just how much he had relied on Bard as a source of comfort, kindness, and love, having found something within Thranduil that both scared and completed him. And it was as though Bard had taken that something with him across the ocean, and left Thranduil only half himself.


	29. Countries Collide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new OC in this chapter is based on the [actress](http://bilbo-babe.tumblr.com/post/102882018788/mirkwood-elves-2) in the last gif of that link. I know one or two background elves were given names by fans (Meludir), so I thought I'd do the same for the purpose of this story. I really grew to like the character I came up with, and I hope you like her too!

Thranduil knocked a coin back and forth against his knuckles, pausing every now and then to turn the page of a book with his other hand. In the library, a cool light burst through the high arching window and onto the table where he and Bard sat, sharing a conversation of turning pages and quill scratches. No one else was there. Thranduil cherished these moments, when they were alone and the sun was bright. To keep such happy memories was a kindness he sometimes believed was well-deserved.

   Bard was writing a letter, his quill scraping the ink pot in the corner of the table. Absently, his free hand bridged the gap between him and Thranduil and he took hold of the hand knocking the coin, which fell to the floor. Thranduil looked up from his book, but Bard’s eyes remained focused on his writing.

    Thranduil went to pull away and retrieve his coin, but he found Bard’s grip tight around his wrist, restricting his movement.

    Laughing, he said, “Bard, let go.”

    Bard didn’t respond, but his fingers curled all the more tightly around Thranduil’s wrist; so tight it surpassed that of ordinary strength. It hurt.  

    “Ow. What’s the matter?” Thranduil asked, wincing as he tried to twist his arm away, but it was as if Bard’s hand was locked on him.

    He saw, then, droplets of water land on the parchment in front of Bard, smudging and obscuring the words. They fell from Bard’s hair, dripping down his nose and chin, though he did not seem to notice. His grip on Thranduil was suddenly wet, dampening the sleeve around his wrist. Then, water began to pool onto the floor, splashing into a rapidly-growing puddle that stemmed from Bard, who had become waxy and bloated, hunched over in his chair like a limp doll. The puddle was filling the library, though they were no longer inside it. Thranduil took a deep breath as his head went under, and when he opened his eyes there was nothing to see except grey-blue water, endless and all-encompassing.

     Thranduil woke slowly, squinting against the harsh sunlight. When at once he understood that he’d been having a dream, he reached out instinctively for Bard. But Bard was not there. A smaller, much lighter figure lay in his place, gangly arms and legs sprawled among the white linen. Legolas mumbled indistinctly in his sleep and turned over. Stomach squirming, Thranduil sat up, inspecting his wrist. It bore no evidence of being harmed.

    He did not believe that dreams where in any way a reflection of one’s life, much less their future. But Thranduil was unsettled all the same, for this dream had recurred many nights now and it was beginning to cluster a heavy shadow on his heart. It disturbed and scared him, for though it was not a reflection, it did remind him just how frightened he was for Bard’s safety.

    Two weeks had already passed since Bard had left and Thranduil was still not used to it. In truth, he did not _want_ to get used to it, no matter how much harder stubbornness made it for him. He was determined to hold the longing in his chest until Bard came back, even if he never did. Secretly, he was afraid to forget Bard, and thus forget himself.

    Shivering in the crisp morning, Thranduil roused himself properly and dressed, ensuring not to wake Legolas. The young boy had taken to falling asleep during meetings or after-dinner talks by the fire, too young to understand or keep up with the adult conversations. When Thranduil tried to take him to bed, Legolas insisted on sleeping with Thranduil, and so now they shared the room upstairs with the bay window, and in the smallest of ways it lightened Thranduil’s soul. Legolas was like a burst of starlight in an otherwise darkening world, so bright and full of joy that it was able to spread across every ocean if he was willing to let it.

    Downstairs, Thranduil breakfasted with the others, some of whom were nervous about the day’s following event. Though an inexplicable frost had found Erebor at last, it had brought with it a small ship from Greenwood, carrying on board an irate, windswept, but unharmed ambassador.

    This meant, now they were all present, that the delegates were going to meet for the first time. Due to Erebor’s size and the reclusive nature of its chambers, they had been vastly separated during their stay. Thranduil knew Thorin had done this on purpose in order to avoid any premeditated quarrels. However, such a tactic instilled much curiosity where the newcomers were concerned and they were eager to be introduced to one other before they were brought to the vote of Thorin’s Council.

    “I heard Oropher’s delegate is a woman,” said Elros conversationally as he cut himself a slice of cheese.

    “Ohhh,” crooned Nimrodel. “Has he finally graduated from mindless clones?”

     Haldir laughed, but Glorfindel frowned.

    “Say what you like about his mindless clones, but they are efficient and take orders easily,” he said. “It will be interesting to see how he ensnared the loyalty of a woman. She must be truly fearsome to have earned his trust. I wonder if she is someone we know.”

    Thranduil pondered this for a moment, running a finger around this rim of his cup. He too found it quite troubling that Oropher’s delegate was a woman. Oropher was in no position to send someone he deemed lesser than himself to represent his country, and any woman surely fell under this category, no matter how fearsome. What was he trying to achieve by doing so? He could not possibly hope to win the Council’s vote when the entire assembly was so dominated by men. Thranduil hated to admit it, but both Galadriel and the ambassador from Greenwood were at a severe disadvantage just by being women.

    After breakfast, Thranduil spent some time in the library with Elrond, Amroth, Glorfindel and Tauriel, overseeing each other’s persuasions and talking points and discussing in general what the meeting that day would unfold.

    “Will the Queen still be attending?” Thranduil asked, knocking a coin against his knuckles distractedly.

    “After her little… interference a fortnight ago, I think she’s prepared to let you handle it,” said Elrond with a wry smile. “She won’t attend this meeting, but she will still sit down to witness the vote.”

    “I suppose that’s the best we can hope for,” Thranduil said with a sigh. “No matter what Thorin thinks, at least I can finally oversee this nonsense myself.”

    Elrond looked at Thranduil inquiringly. “What does Thorin think?”

    Thranduil started. “Nothing… it’s of no importance.”

    “Can I attend today’s gathering?” Tauriel piped up. “I know I’m not a delegate, but surely there would be no harm in it?”

    Thranduil exchanged a quick glance with Glorfindel to confer this.

    “It should be alright,” he said with a smile. “We do not want to antagonise the other ambassadors, but I daresay they won’t believe you’re a pirate. Glorfindel, maybe, if he doesn’t find a way to tame his hair.”

    Glorfindel scowled and pushed back his golden curls. “There is no way to tame it.”

    “Give it here,” said Tauriel, and she stood up and began to run her fingers through his hair, tugging and pulling it into a braid.

    “Ouch!” Glorfindel yelped, clutching his scalp. “Have a care, you heathen!”

    “Amroth, are you still standing with Galadriel?” Thranduil asked while Tauriel attacked Glorfindel.

    Amroth nodded. “She hasn’t quite the… temperament for politics, and with me on her side the Council may be fooled into thinking they will be getting my father as well. Unless Greenwood offers him up as a secondary alliance, of course.”

    “You ought to be more careful,” said Elrond. “They'll noy take kindly to you for lying.”

    “It doesn’t really matter,” said Amroth. “I do not think Galadriel is genuinely interested in securing the vote. She is just here to play the part.”

    “I wonder what she plans to achieve by being here, then?” Elrond wondered aloud. “Didn’t you say Bard was gathering her forces, Thranduil?”

    “That’s right,” said Thranduil. “She did not seem to expect some kind of reward for her help.”

    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” said Tauriel abruptly, tying off Glorfindel’s hair with a flourish and making him whimper. “I overheard her talking to her wolf – well, it was a raven at the time – about all the wonderful uses for dragon scales and bones. She was positively delirious about getting her hands on the spleen, even.”

    Elrond rolled his eyes at this. “So she wants the carcass as a reward. Well, I wish her all the luck in getting it back to Lorien, because she won’t be getting any help from me.”

    Amroth laughed, but then said. “Wait, did you say her wolf was a raven?”

    “It can change its form, didn’t you know?” Tauriel answered him.

    “Now that you mention it, I haven’t even seen it around lately,” said Glorfindel, who was still massaging his head. “Usually that thing is stuck to her like pitch.”

    “Perhaps she sent it away somewhere?” Amroth suggested.

    “Whatever has become of it, we will have to find some other time to discuss it,” said Elrond, getting to his feet. “We need to be in west parlour in ten minutes.”

    The five of them collected their things and hurried out of the library. As they walked, Tauriel attempted to make herself look more presentable. Though she was used to a life of corsets and skirts from her time in Imladris, her few months as a pirate had turned her into a lazy dresser. While in Erebor, she accosted herself from wearing breaches or boots, but regularly failed to have her corset properly tied or her hair done up in any fashion. However, with some help from Glorfindel, she managed to have these things accounted for, and by the time they reached the west parlour, she could have almost passed for a princess.

    Elrond pushed the doors open and, to Thranduil’s immense relief, they were the first to arrive. The only others present were Thorin and Bilbo, both of whom looked rather anxious.

    “I see we’ve worked the staff extra hard to impress the reps,” Thranduil remarked as he examined a banquet table laden with food and wine. He helped himself to the latter at once.

    “You lot better behave yourselves,” said Thorin gruffly, glowering at the goblet in Thranduil’s hand.

    Glorfindel scoffed very deliberately. “When have we ever been anything but well-mannered and respectable guests?”

    “I could name quite a few examples, actually,” said Bilbo hotly. “Not least of which would be that you frightened half the staff into surrendering all the rum in the kingdom.”

    “Rum is good,” said Thranduil simply.

    Bilbo was about to open his mouth to retort, but he was cut short at the door to the parlour opening once again. Two men entered, one old and thickly bearded, the other tall and haughty. Thranduil saw the crest of Gondor shining on their braces, and knew that the younger of the two was Ecthelion, who was less a king than Thranduil himself was. He privately disapproved of Gondor’s interest in the matters of Erebor, for in his mind a steward without a monarch had no right to secure an alliance with such a far-off country. But Thranduil knew it was not his place to consider this, for he was reminded of his own position, which was far below that of Ecthelion and his father, Turgon, for if a steward had no place among the assembly, then a pirate certainly didn’t either.

    Yet they were both there. Ecthelion glared at Thranduil, recognising him at once, and Glorfindel too, for they had once met as children, pulled along in the wake of their fathers’ short-lived alliance many years ago.

    “A bastard with a stolen name,” Glorfindel muttered to Thranduil.

    “He isn’t as unreasonable as that,” Thranduil said. “And your Ecthelion did not own his name.”

    “Aye, but he immortalised it far better than this pathetic excuse for a steward.”

    Turgon and Ecthelion greeted Thorin warmly and took seats by a window, Turgon leaning heavily upon a cane even as he sat. Thranduil was surprised such an old man had made the journey so far from Gondor.

    Minutes later, the doors opened again and this time Galadriel found her way into the parlour, dressed still in her ragged, white dress and lacking any shoes. She did not greet anyone, but drifted over to the other window and sat on its ledge, looking cool and almost disappearing in the white light that filtered in behind her.

    After her came three others, bearing emblems from Rohan. A woman, dark of hair and clad in deep red, walking arm-in-arm with a sturdy, weather-beaten man with a hooked nose. Behind them, a girl followed, barely older than thirteen and very timid. Tauriel tried to draw her attention by smiling, but the invitation was ignored and Rohan’s king and queen stood stiffly by the banquet table, their daughter picking at a bowl of grapes for something to do. They were the only group to not have a third party to represent their country, and Thranduil wondered why.

    Most anticipated was Greenwood’s delegate, though she kept them waiting. The minutes rolled by and Thranduil began to feel impatient, resenting the tense silence that had swelled in the room between the other ambassadors, for no one was speaking to each other yet.

    When she finally entered, Thranduil was taken aback by her. A tiny thing, she couldn’t have been taller than Tauriel, nor any older. Her hair was quaintly curled and fashioned into an elegant knot, and the colour of dark honey. Freckles smattered her small, pointed nose, and her lips were a deep, cherry red. Beautiful though she was, however, Thranduil couldn’t help but think she looked rather mousy. He turned to relay this to Tauriel, but faltered when he saw the expression on her face. Not surprise, or incredulity, but absolute awe. Her cheeks were dusted pink and her mouth slightly parted, as if she was seeing the world for the first time.

    “Now that we’re all present,” Thorin said, disrupting the quiet. “I’ll take a moment to introduce everyone. Turgon and Ecthelion of Gondor… Elrond of Rivendell… Galadriel and Amroth of Lothlorien…. Morwen and Thengel of Rohan…. Elanor of Greenwood… and Thranduil of Greenwood – please, don’t spit on the rug.”

    Thranduil shot Turgon a disgusted glare, but otherwise chose to ignore this unwarranted outburst. Glorfindel, however, shook his fist at the old man and called him something very rude. Ecthelion rose from his seat, his ears red with anger.

    “I won’t stand for this,” Morwen suddenly exclaimed, stepping forward to claim the first word for herself. “I won’t have my name among the company of pirates!”

    “How can you expect us to take this vote seriously when these outlaws are up for consideration as well?” piped up Ecthelion. 

    “It’s a joke,” said Thengel. “You’re playing us for fools.”

    “I thought you lot were already fools,” said Glorfindel with a savage grin.

    “Don’t make it worse, Glorfindel,” Elrond snarled.

    “Are you hearing this? Why, you’d think we were nothing but common criminals!”

    “You are criminals!” Turgon shouted, his voice oddly deep and loud for someone so old. “Filthy pirates! You should all hang!"

    “And what makes you better than us?” Tauriel shrilled, taking a step forward. Elrond tried to grab her and pull her away, but she yanked herself out of his grip. “We stand by the same morals you do!”

    “What morals?” said Morwen.

    “What do you think we’re even doing here?” Glorfindel cried, his hair coming loose from its braid just from the bristle of his anger. “We all want the same thing. Roaming the sea doesn’t make us any different.”

    “You pillage the sea of whatever goodness that sails upon it,” Ecthelion retorted. “I see a great difference between you and me.”

    “Thranduil and Elrond are here at my request,” Thorin finally interjected. “Pirates or not, they are my guests and potential allies and you would do well not to alienate them anymore.”

    “I recognise none of this preceding if you insist that they are involved,” said Ecthelion, folding his arms. “Two of them have been branded – how can you justify that?”

    “It was just a misunderstanding –”

    “A misunderstanding?” roared Thengel. “A branded pirate is worse than an unmarked one. Evidence of treachery is upon their skin. There is no justification for their crimes that even you can convince me of, Oakenshield.”

    “If our only crime is doing what’s right, then I bear the brand with pride,” said Glorfindel, pulling back his hair to reveal the burn.

    “And what of your captain, so stoic and unblemished?” said Morwen, turning to Thranduil with a glint of malice. “Has he nothing to say in his own defence? An exiled prince in search of treasure that is not his to claim. A more tragic story I haven’t heard.”

    “Morwen, you don’t even know the whole story,” Thorin said. He seemed unable to find the words that might calm down his quests. Aghast and frustrated, he simply stood there while the row festered.

    Thranduil wished he had the energy to lash out as Tauriel and Glorfindel did, but deep down he half thought there was some truth in what the other delegates claimed. What right did they have, as pirates, to offer an alliance? What could they possibly provide that might sway the council vote in their favour? Thranduil had a ship, and a broken, beat-down crew who once dreamed of greater adventures; of lives without fear and loathing. Never mind his purpose, and never mind his royal blood, all these people saw was a pirate, and that’s all he would ever be.

 

    Thorin managed to bring order to the quarrel and sent everyone away from the parlour. Thranduil felt bad, for he knew Thorin had been counting on that afternoon to go well, but the presence of the pirates had all but secured its failure.

    “I’m sorry,” Thranduil said when the parlour had been emptied by half the assembly. The only others who remained with Thorin and Thranduil were Galadriel, Elrond, and the girl, Elanor. She approached from her place by the window, uprooting herself from the shadows.

    Thorin rubbed his eyes with his thumb and fore-finger. Up close, Thranduil could see that he was very tired.

    “I don’t know what I expected,” he muttered.

    “It’s my fault,” said Thranduil at once. “I should not have made my presence so open to them. I should have disguised my status.”

    But Thorin shook his head. “I fear that would have only made it worse, for they would have discovered you regardless. It is better to be honest, even if that means stirring trouble.”

    “I am still sorry to be responsible for the position you are in.”

    “It’s not your doing. The others are just too proud to admit that a pirate might actually be a good person.”

    “They don’t exactly have a lot of evidence of such,” said Elanor, speaking for the first time. Her voice was light and feminine, and could command the attention of the room with barely a whisper. She tossed a lock of hair from her face as she spoke, looking severe. “You can’t expect decent folk to throw our hats in with pirates. No pirate yet has proven himself worthy of respect.”

    Elrond scowled. “And by what standards do you judge a person worthy of respect? You don’t even know why we are here.”

    “Why are any of us here? The treasure is incentive enough for even the richest of kings to consider such a promising alliance. I daresay a pirate would salivate at the opportunity of acquiring so much gold, blinded by it as you are.”

    “You are impertinent,” said Thranduil, turning to glare at her. “How dare you make assumptions about what you couldn’t possibly understand?”

    Elanor raised an eyebrow, looking up at Thranduil in vague surprise. “I understand plenty, Prince Thranduil. Greenwood as a collective may think you long dead, but those of us with the King’s confidence are quite well-informed of your treachery. If this were Greenwood territory, I could have you executed at once.”

    “Seeing as this _isn’t_ Greenwood territory…” Thorin said reprovingly.

    “For now,” said Elanor, cutting across him. “I like to think that we shall have an accord by the time this is all over. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

    She swept out of the room, her long skirts brushing the carpet. While Thranduil and Elrond both glowered at her retreating back, Galadriel clapped her hands together beside them, her eyes alight with mischief.

    “Such exciting politics I have not seen in a long time,” she crooned. “It has been many ages since the nations did not kill each other when found in the same room. You have some power keeping them in order, Oakenshield.”

    Thorin did not respond to this. Instead, he took his leave, and after a breath of pause, the rest of the assembly followed him from the parlour.

    The pirates had claimed another, larger parlour in the east side of the mountain, so Thranduil retreated there, intending to look over his notes again. The vote was to be held the following week and he was determined to make a good impression on the council.

    On his way over, Tauriel caught up with him, having lingered in a nearby corridor after being dismissed. She was shamefaced and walked a step behind Thranduil.

    “Please say something,” she whispered. “It’s so much worse when you don’t.”

    Thranduil looked behind him and realised that she was expecting some sort of reprimand. But he hadn’t the heart to deliver one. He didn’t blame her, after all, for behaving the way she did. Once upon a time, he would have done the same.

    “I have nothing to say,” he told her. “After all, we cannot let others dictate where our place is. We must decide for ourselves where it is, and then stand and remain there.”

    Tauriel smiled. “But I antagonised the delegates further by retaliating. I made the situation worse.”

    “The situation was already worse,” said Thranduil. “We antagonised the delegates just by being pirates. Nothing could have been done to ease the tension.”

    “All the same…” Tauriel murmured, trailing off. She sighed and matched her step with Thranduil’s. “What did you think of the girl? Elanor?”

    Thranduil chewed his lip thoughtfully. “I have no opinion as of yet. She seems… too young.”

    Tauriel nodded solemnly. “Very young. A curious advocate for the King, wouldn’t you say?”

    “Yes. I was expecting someone… different. If not a man, at least a more substantial woman. But I daresay there is more to her than meets the eye. We must be careful.”

    They arrived at the parlour. It was a cosy, brightly-lit room with many sofas and lounges. At the far end, a fire was lit in the grate, and near it sat many of Thranduil’s crew. He surveyed the room for Bard, out of habit, and it took him a moment to remember why he wasn’t there. Absently, Thranduil drew his tongue to the back of his mouth, where a tooth was missing. Then he went to sit by Mithrellas on the floor.

    “Are you fully recovered?” he asked her, for it was the first time he had seen her outside the infirmary. Her head was no longer bandaged, and the gash where the bullet had entered her scalp was visible through her short hair.

    Mithrellas smiled warmly, and Thranduil noticed it was crooked, not fully raised on the left side. “The wound has healed, but it has affected my brain.”

    “Is it very bad?” Thranduil said with a frown.

    “Lord Elrond thinks I am lucky to even be alive, and for that I am grateful. I think the worst of my symptoms are the seizures. I do not remember them, but Nimrodel fusses.”

    Thranduil chuckled. “Of course she does. But you are well, and that is what matters most. I am glad you survived, Mithrellas.”

    Mithrellas smiled her crooked smile again and went back to the book she was reading. Beside her, Nimrodel was lying on the floor, bouncing her leg on her knee and humming to herself. Thranduil wondered how very hard it must have been for her, to believe Mithrellas dead, even for a second. They were both of them so fragile in their quiet innocence, both of them so completely enamoured by each other that to take one away would be like destroying an entire world.

    And yet, how could he ignore the world that had already been destroyed, so many months ago now? Thranduil saw Lethuin sitting on the ledge of the window, watching the snow fall outside. His prosthetic leg hung lazily, unnaturally still while the rest of him shifted and rose in breathing. Thranduil had barely spoken to him in light of the drawing alliance. He wondered if Lethuin was okay, for there were days when he was himself sometimes; playing games, telling terrible jokes, picking on Nimrodel. But Thranduil saw too often how quiet he’d become, when he thought no one was paying him any attention.

    Surely there would be a way to repair all the damage that had been done to them. Perhaps, one day, the friends Thranduil had lost would no longer be aching sorrow, but happy memory. Maybe when all this was over, they could finally be at peace in the minds of those who had remained behind to keep fighting, or else joined by them, in a ship that sailed on the bluest water, bathed in golden sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm officially putting this fic on an indefinite hiatus. I may continue to work on it, but right now I can see that people have lost interest. Which is fine, but it simply means it's not worth the effort I'm putting into writing. I'm sorry to those couple of you who were commenting diligently on every update, but I cannot justify spending so much time on something that, in my mind, isn't being read.


End file.
